He Is Not Invincible
by Nikolaos
Summary: "Every SHIELD agent, analyst and god damned janitor across the world just watched Barton get tortured. They've just been shown that he isn't the invincible Hawkeye. They've been shown that he's just a kid from Iowa. This is the worst thing that could happen to him." "But he's still alive. Isn't that better?" "Being dead doesn't ruin a reputation. You can come back from the dead."
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Putting it out there, this will not be your typical search and rescue fic. However, there will be bad language, some torture and Coulson pulling out his hair (No one else wonder if he always had such a receding hairline?) This storey follows "LOOKING FOR HAWKEYE" but you do not need to have read that to understand this one. Let me know if you think the rating should change. Enjoy.  
**

 **.**

 **SHIELD**

 **.**

 **.**

"Oh shit!"

Hill jumped up from her chair, startling the other analysts as she rushed out of the room.

"Make a hole!" She shouted as she ran down the corridors of the SHIELD base. People automatically hugged the walls of the corridors; nobody was a stranger to seeing people rush about the base. Time was always of the essence when the agency they worked for dealt with potentially world ending disasters.

Hill took the stairs two at a time, climbing up five levels rather than wait for the elevator. Reaching her destination, she knocked on the door of Coulson's office, but for the first time in her life she didn't wait for an answer before opening the door and entering.

Coulson looked up from his computer screen, glaring at the intruder as he held his desk phone next to his ear.

"Sir, open your email. Now!" Hill said without preamble as she walked behind Coulson's desk to stand next to the man.

"Hill, I..."

"Sir, you need to open your email now. There's footage of Barton."

"What?" Coulson hung up the phone without even saying goodbye to whoever he had been previously talking too. Quickly clicking out of the documents he had been reviewing he logged into his SHIELD email account.

"Fifteen down," pointed Hill. She couldn't believe how many emails Coulson got sent, and by her quick glance it looked like the twenty unopened ones were just from the last two hours.

Coulson clicked on the one Hill pointed out. It didn't have a subject heading and the email address it had been sent from looked like it was a standard SHIELD email account. There was nothing remarkable about it.

The email itself had no message, only a single attachment. Clicking to open it, a video screen popped up and automatically began to play. Coulson and Hill watched as the black screen changed to show a young man hanging from the ceiling by his wrists.

Both agents instantly recognised the man as Agent Barton. He appeared to be unconscious, his chin resting on his bare chest and dried blood plastered on his skin.

Then the screen went black. Fifteen seconds. That's all they had. Fifteen seconds with no sound, no discernible location, no nothing.

"Is there any more?" asked Coulson carefully, even though he was certain he knew the answer.

"Nothing, but this proves he's alive, right?"

"There's no date, no evidence of when this was taken. This could have been taken the day Barton disappeared."

"Then why send it now?" asked Hill in confusion. The small amount of hope that had built up inside of her was now dwindling.

"I don't know," sighed Coulson as he leant back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But whoever sent this is taunting us."

"I'll get a search program running, see if the cyberlab can back trace the sender," said Hill as she started walking out of the office, pulling her cell phone out as she went.

"Good," nodded Coulson. After three weeks of Barton being missing and no evidence of where he had gone, who had taken him or why, this new development was both welcome and troubling. All they had on what had happened to Barton was the location of his last perch on a mission that was a meant to be a simple surveillance and his kit and weapons surrounded by blood. A lot of blood.

Coulson clicked play on the video again, watching the same fifteen seconds and seeing nothing new. Clicking play for a third time, he paused it when it showed the close up of Barton's face.

"Where are you?" he muttered.

.

.

SHIELD

.

 **AN: Thoughts and opinions welcome.**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN:** Thank you all who reviewed, it is very much appreciated. Hope you all enjoy the next chapter.

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

.

 **.**

 **THREE WEEKS AGO  
**

"Barton," called Coulson. "What are you doing here?"

"What does it look like?" huffed Clint as he pulled back the string on his bow, sighted the target and released the arrow.

Coulson watched the arrow imbed into the target at the far end of the range. "Why are you here then, is the better question? You're meant to be in room 206."

Barton clenched his jaw as he let loose another arrow.

"Barton-"

"I know," growled Barton as he turned to face Coulson.

"So why aren't you?"

"Really? Oh, I don't know, maybe because I know the fucking agents handbook from cover to cover and sitting and listening to Agent Holland recite word for word his goddamn power point presentation which is copied straight from the bloody book is a waste of time."

"Barton, this is the consequence of disobeying orders," sighed Coulson.

"Four years I've been an agent, how is recieting the book meant to straighten me out?"

"It's a punishment, it's not meant to be fun. What would you prefer, being based in Alaska or re-doing basic training?"

"I didn't even do most of basic training in the first place," scoffed Barton.

"Then see this as a learning experience," shrugged Coulson. He could understand Barton's point, but the young man had to learn there were consequences of going against orders. The problem was finding something that would be a punishment for Barton that he then wouldn't turn into something he was actually enjoying, so sitting still in a classroom was the best punishment Coulson could come up with at this moment for the younger man.

"How did you even get your bow? You're not allowed any weapons outside of an officiated practise."

"Well, as everybody keeps telling me, my archaic weapon is not SHIELD SOP, so therefore it doesn't count. Even if I did save Fury's ass with it."

Coulson couldn't help but smile, remembering the shot Barton had pulled off with his bow, even Fury had been impressed. Still hadn't changed the director's mind on letting Barton go out in the field with the bow though.

"Barton-"

"Just don't, Coulson. I'm not sitting through Holland's lecture so by all means send me to Alaska. I stand by my word, I was right to disobey Dobson's hold order. If I'd done what that asshole wanted then Fisher would be dead, not to mention a bunch of other agents."

"Your shot cost Fisher his ear."

"They sewed it back on," shrugged Barton. "Besides he's alive, Dobson is alive, Dobson's team is alive and the fucking terrorist is not. Please do tell me where the bad outcome is?"

Coulson sighed as he listened to Barton get more worked up. He'd read the report and he did agree that Barton had done the right thing to take the shot, but Dobson was the agent in charge of the Operation and he hadn't seen it that way, which meant Barton took the fall and if Dobson had got his way then Barton would be on a one way trip to The Fridge.

"Agent Coulson, sir?"

Coulson turned around to see another agent looking rather timid behind him, raising an eyebrow in question he waited for the agent to speak.

"Director Fury requests you in his office, ASAP," said the agent before turning and leaving.

Barton scoffed behind him, "Something on your mind, Barton?" asked Coulson.

"I doubt Fury requests anything."

"He keeps requesting that you get rid of your bow," pointed out Coulson.

"Yeah, and me ignoring him saved his life so I'm gonna keep doing things my way."

"Barton, you have got to start following the rules, and not just the ones you like."

Barton clenched his jaw again, "Fine, what would you like me to do?"

"Go to Holland's lecture, you've only missed twenty minutes."

"Excellent, he'll just be starting on chapter two," groaned Barton. "You know, you break rules too," stated Barton as he walked off the range.

Shaking his head, Coulson looked back down at the target Barton had been firing at, the arrows still sticking out of the board, that he remembered Barton making in the first few months of him being an agent.

The target on top of the board was one of an outline of a man, with an added black line drawn across the _target's_ chin in the style of a cartoon scar. The spot being exactly where Agent Dobson had a large scar.

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

Coulson knocked on Director Fury's office door, waiting for the familiar voice to call him to enter before opening the door and stepping inside.

"You called?" asked Coulson.

"I did. You care to explain why Barton is firing that bow of his on the range? I thought he was banned from carrying any weapons until he's finished the basic training program?"

Coulson wasn't surprised to find that Fury knew about what was going on with Barton. The man had an uncanny ability to know what was going on with everybody.

"According to your rules, his bow isn't SOP therefore doesn't count, his words," shrugged Coulson as he tried not to smile.

"And the knife he's carrying at the base of his back?"

"I don't know about that," answered Coulson honestly, though it didn't surprise him.

Fury turned his computer screen around to face Coulson, it showed a still captured from CCTV of Barton in the range. His t-shirt had risen up, showing the handle of a knife lying lengthways going across his belt.

"That would be one of the knives Barton brought with him when he became an agent. It's an old one, not well balanced. Has the word "survive" etched into the hilt. Knowing him, he knows it's not SOP so in his world it doesn't count," explained Coulson. He knew there was a storey behind the acquisition of that knife, but Barton hadn't told him when he had got it. But everytime something didn't quite go right, or Barton got a bad feeling about a situation it tended to make an appearance.

"His _world_ as you put it, is warped," muttered Fury. He'd never known an agent to bend so many rules. If he wasn't so good at his job he would have got rid of the man years ago.

"Was there anything else, Sir? Or were you just enquiring into Barton's 'health'?" asked Coulson, a slight smile on his lips.

Fury raised his remaining eyebrow in question, before throwing a file at Coulson. "Get Barton off my base, he's making everybody nervous."

"Not liking the competition?" chuckled Coulson as he headed towards the office door.

"This is his last chance, Coulson. Tell Barton if he doesn't play by the rules this time, not to bother coming back. That kid creates too much paperwork."

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

"If Holland were to disappear one day, would anybody miss him?" asked Barton walking straight into Coulson's office without knocking.

Coulson frowned at Barton's interruption but didn't comment on it. He'd given up trying to get Barton to knock before entering; some battles were not worth fighting. Besides he was pretty sure Barton did it on purpose just to piss him off.

"I swear, that man couldn't get more boring if he tried," groaned Barton as he slouched down in the chair in front of Coulson's desk.

"You're not killing Holland."

"I never said I'd kill him," shrugged Barton. "I was thinking more like dropping him off on an island somewhere, most likely one of the Antipodes Islands. There a group of volcanic islands south of New Zealand, its got a cold climate and harsh winds, completely uninhabitable."

"The fact that you've thought about this greatly concerns me," said Coulson, shaking his head as he passed a file to Barton. "Use that brain of yours to focus on this instead."

"What is it?"

"New mission, surveillance." Coulson didn't miss the small groan coming from Barton. "Or you could stay here and attend Holland's lecture tomorrow."

"So,where am I going?" smirked Barton opening the file.

"Mexico City. Need you to follow Alejandro Sanchez, he's a student there at UNAM studying chemistry. I need you to find out if he looks like he'll be following his father into the family business."

"Drugs?"

"Among other things. Alejandro Sanchez Sr. Worked for the Rivera cartel, he was killed two years ago. Alejandro Sanchez Jr. Managed to move to Mexico City with his younger sister Paulina where they've kept under the radar and away from the cartels notice. But with the new information that Junior is now studying Chemistry its within SHIELD's interest to see that this is more coincidence and not a continuing family tradition."

"Uh-huh, so SHIELD killed this kid's old man and now someone feels guilty. Fury made this up just so I wasn't hanging around the base, didn't he?"

"I think Director Fury has better things to do than make up bogus assignments for one pain in the ass agent."

Barton grinned, knowing when he was hearing Fury's words.

"Would you like to see the original case file?" sighed Coulson, holding up another file.

"When do I leave?" grinned Barton, taking the file.

"Tomorrow 0800, all the relevant information you need are in those files. Don't be late."

"Wouldn't dream of it," grinned Barton as he stood up to leave.

"And Barton, no going off script this time."

"Sure thing boss."

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

.

 **AN:** The storey of how Barton got the knife is **Before They Were Agents: Iowa.** Agent Holland is the same agent Holland in my storey **Training Days: IQ Is More Than A Number.** Neither storey future relevance to the rest of this storey, but are there if you wish to read in the future.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** Thank you to all who have reviewed. There is a special guest star in this chapter, you get three guesses on who the mystery woman is however the first two guesses don't count ;-) Enjoy!

.

- **SHIELD-**

 **.**

"This is the most boring guy I've ever had to tail," groaned Barton as he sat down on the park bench, opposite the cafe where Sanchez was sitting. "This is totally a bogus assignment. This guy has no ties to drug cartels, hell he's never even had an overdue book fee."

 _"Report Barton."_

Barton rolled his eyes at Coulson's tone. "Sanchez goes to class, spends his free time in the library, then goes to the same cafe everyday to wait for his sister before they go home. Except on Tuesday's when he actually works in the cafe, and on Friday's and most of Saturday where he works in a restaurant.

"I also really need to brush up on my Spanish, either that or tell this dude that his homework is wrong."

 _"You're fluent in Spanish."_

"I know, I guess this kid isn't as smart as you all think he is. Can I come home now?"

 _"Anybody watching him?"_

"No. I've also run a basic background check on his lecturers, his colleagues, his classmates, the tenants in his building and the kid sister's teachers. Oh, and the guy at the grocery store, he looked shifty, turns out he's just skimming from the register. Not doing a bad job at it either, he-"

 _"Why the sister's teachers? And when are you sleeping?"_

"I'm sleeping fine," groaned Barton at the familiar statement. "And the sister is the real genius. If anybody was to get recruited into something less than ethical it would be her."

 _"She's twelve."_

"She's reading books on quantum physics! No kid who reads something like that should be trusted, definetly up to something fishy."

 _"You told me you read physics books when you were that young, maybe she's just bored."_

"Uh-huh, and look where I ended up. So when do I get to skip town?"

 _"I'll pass your findings on. Check in tomorrow."_

Barton flicked the cell phone closed and pocketed it. "Nice chatting too you Coulson, always a pleasure." He knew he was being blown off, the same as he knew this assignment was just a way of getting him out from under people's feet. Maybe after this they wouldn't hand him out to teams who had incompetent leaders. Or better yet, not hand him out to teams at all. He hated the missions which required a team, preferring his solo missions.

Looking back to Sanchez he saw that the sister had now arrived, they were sitting at their usual table, both with their heads down, noses in their books. He pulled his phone out again as it started beeping, flipping it open he read the message.

 **I'M IN PANAMA. DO YOU HAVE ANY CONTACTS HERE? I NEED A BIG BANG**

Clint smirked at the message before typing back a quick reply. **I KNEW ONE GUY, HE MIGHT BE DEAD THOUGH. TIME FRAME FOR ME TO FIND HIM?**

 **24HRS OR I SCRUB THE JOB.**

 **DONE** Typed Clint before he deleted the messages before focusing on the Sanchez siblings again. They hadn't moved and nobody was paying them any notice.

.

 **-SHIELD-**

.

"Barton? Barton do you read me?" Coulson walked up and down the command centre as he tried to establish contact with the younger agent.

"Have you got a GPS location?" he asked Agent Hill.

"Just coming up now sir," she said, pointing to the large monitor on the wall which showed a map with coordinates being zoomed in on.

"He's still in Mexico City?"

"Yes sir, according to the tracking data, his cell hasn't moved in more than twelve hours."

"Do we have any real-time footage?"

"Satellite is being moved into position as we speak, it'll be another ten minutes before we have footage of the area."

"Can you track Barton's movements before he stopped moving?"

"Yes," hesitated Hill, unsure on where Coulson was going with this.

"Pull up all his movements from when he first landed in Mexico City. I also want to know every call he made and received and every purchase he's made, I-"

"Sir, Barton uses cash on missions," interrupted Hill.

"He has a SHIELD credit card for expenses."

"He pulls out cash when he first lands, only cash transactions until he finishes," informed Hill. "Actually, he rarely uses any card transactions even when he isn't on a mission. He withdraws cash at certain periods and-"

"How do you know all this? How do I not know this?" asked Coulson in surprise.

Hill shrugged, "I occasionally play pool with Agent Barton and we trade in truths."

Coulson shook his head in amazement; he knew Barton had a few acquaintances on base and throughout the agency. He had never realised that Hill was one of them. Then another thought occured to him. "You can keep up with Barton, playing pool?"

"Three older brothers," she smirked. "And Barton always has a handicap."

"Sir?" called another analyst. "I have the details of Agent Barton's movements."

"Can you show me on the map?"

The analyst nodded, clicking a few keys before several red dots appeared on the large map.

"And where was the last location his cell was tracked too?" asked Coulson. A blue dot appeared on screen, overlying several red dots. "What was he watching?"

"The building across from there is where the target Barton was tailing lives."

"Who knew Barton would be in Mexico?" asked Coulson, looking back to Hill for the answer.

"Up until you walked in here and told the room, only you and Director Fury."

"Any tampering with the file? Anybody tried to look in it?"

"No sir."

"Sir, the satellite is in position," called another analyst.

Coulson turned to look at the screen, the map had gone and been replaced by pixillated footage. Coulson waited until the picture was enhanced enough and the rooftop of where Barton had once been could be seen clearly.

"Get me a Quinjet," snapped Coulson as he pulled off his headset and walked out of the room.

Hill looked up to the screen, a bird was painted on the rooftop in blood with a large puddle next to it. Within the puddle was a cell phone, two knives and a handgun.

.

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

Eight hours later and Coulson was standing on the roof top that he had viewed from the satellite. Barton's weapons and cell phone were gone, having been picked up several hours ago by the nearest SHIELD team that was posted here. The team had cleaned up the blood, and now there was nothing here that suggested Barton had ever been here in the first place.

It didn't stop Coulson looking around though, trying to find anything that the team had missed. Anything to suggest who had taken Barton.

"He's not in the country anymore?"

Coulson spun around, his gun raised and pointed to where the voice had come from. All he saw was darkness.

"Your agent, he's not in the country," said a woman stepping out of the shadows. Coulson still couldn't see her face though because of the hood she had pulled up, he couldn't even see any hair sticking out, or any other decernable features, she didn't even have an accent that he could place.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"A friend," said the woman. "Well, Barton calls me a friend. I can never decide what to call him."

Coulson lowered his gun, but didn't holster it. He didn't sense an immediate threat from this woman, but he knew she was dangerous. It was the same sense he got around Barton when the younger man was on a mission.

"What do you know?"

"Interesting," said the woman.

"What is?" asked Coulson in confusion.

"That you haven't asked any more questions about who I am?"

"Would you answer them if I did ask?"

The woman laughed, "That would depend on the question."

"So what do you know?" asked Coulson.

"There is a private airfield about fifty miles west of the city, a jet left there two nights ago with only one registered passenger, however my sources tells me there were two passengers. One was unconscious, matching Barton's description."

"Can I verify this source?" asked Coulson, not one for trusting any information that was that easily handed to him.

"You can talk to him as much as you like, though I don't think he'll talk back."

"I'm sure I'll find a way."

The woman shrugged again, "I wasn't aware that SHIELD could resurrect the dead. You'll find him in the city morgue."

"How did you know Barton was missing?" asked Coulson.

"I have my ways."

"Did he call you?" Coulson wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. If Barton had called this woman while on a mission then he'd broken one of the cardinal rules of being on a mission. If he hadn't called this woman then, whoever she was, knew a lot about SHIELD operations and more importantly Barton's movements. All of which could be contributing factors that led to Barton's disappearance.

"Not this time," the woman sighed. "SHIELD may have a lot of contacts but so do I, so does Barton. And when someone like Barton disappears without a trace, people notice. I notice."

"Barton, has disappeared before," pointed out Coulson. "Why is this time so different?"

"Why do you think this time is so different?"

Coulson looked at the shadowy figure, trying to figure her out. Was she really Barton's friend? Was she the reason he'd disappeared?

"You're not sure, are you?" said the woman. "You actually think that Barton left by choice."

"No!" protested Coulson.

"But you had doubts," pointed out the woman.

Coulson sighed, not really knowing why he was telling this unknown woman this. "Barton has a habit of disobeying orders. He's missed check-ins before."

"I've known Barton for a long time, I've seen him at his worse and when he's at his best. So I know that the only reason he would leave SHIELD was if he was forced." The woman shrugged. "Or if SHIELD violated his moral code. Did SHIELD do that?"

"How do I get in contact with you?" asked Coulson, not answering her question. He didn't think SHIELD had betrayed Barton, yes he'd been pissed when he'd been sent out here, he knew this assignment was _bogus_ as he put it. In fact, the assignment had only been created the day before he'd been shipped out. Did he know that and decide to skip out? But how did he explain the blood? Barton wasn't a masochist, so if this was all a rouse then the blood wouldn't be Barton's. And why then paint a picture of a hawk on the roof?

"I will contact you if I find anything else out."

"How?"

"I have my ways."

Coulson watched as the woman faded into the night and disappeared. He could only imagine who she was, Barton had never mentioned any female contacts outside of SHIELD, of course Barton had never mentioned any contacts outside of SHIELD, not by name at least.

Pulling out his cell phone he called the nearest field office where any evidence of what happened on this roof had been sent. Hopefully they would have some answers.

.

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

 **AN:** I know nothing about satellites, GPS, tracking data or anything else that involves computers or technology. Feel free to tell me if I've made any blatant mistakes and I'll see to fixing them.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** Sorry for the delay with the update, what with Christmas, New Year, assignments and job applications I suddenly find myself with no free time. This little tid bit, is just to tie you over until I can work out how to get more than 24hrs in a day, or just go without sleep entirely. Enjoy!

.

.

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

 **.**

"The blood results have come in," said Hill handing Coulson a piece of paper. "It's Barton's. I'm sorry."

"Doesn't mean he's dead," muttered Coulson as he read the results for himself.

"There was nearly three pints of blood on that rooftop."

"Exactly, so who drew that bird? Barton's not a masochist or a sadist. No, if Barton wanted to disappear there would be zero trace. No blood, no weapons left behind, no nothing."

"But he is a sociopath, sometimes I wonder if he borders on being a psychopath. Normal human interactions are not his forte."

Coulson stood up and rounded his desk, lifting a box up off the floor as he went. Pulling out a file he opened it and placed in the blood results before closing it again. "I believe his first psyche report stated 'sociopathic tendencies'. Barton might not always like the rules, or always abide by them, but he wouldn't do something like this." Coulson smiled, "And he only wants people to believe he's a psychopath, he likes messing with their heads."

Hill shook her head, she was pretty sure that was the definition of a psychopath but what did she know, she was just an analyst. "What makes you so sure?"

"Because I know Barton, he's got something to live for while he's here."

"You're telling me he's got nothing outside of SHIELD? No family, no friends. Nothing?"

"You told me that you play pool with Barton, traded in truths. So you tell me, does Barton have anything outside of SHIELD to go back too?"

Hill smirked, "From the little that Barton tells me, I gather he's got enemies on most continents, informants in most countries and a useless fact about most cities. I've no idea about his personal life."

"Even if Barton did choose to disappear, which I believe he didn't. He's in trouble, or about to walk into trouble. Which means we need to find him and fast," stated Coulson like there was no option B.

"Yes sir," smiled Hill before turning and walking out of Coulson's office. She had work to do, and she'd be damned if she failed.

.

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Apologies for taking so long to update, hopefully this will satisfy you all. Thank you to everybody who has left reviews, they are very much appreciated. Enjoy the next chapter, which is much longer than the last one, I just hope you don't find Coulson OOC, he's a little bit stres**

 **.**

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

 **.**

Fury walked into the evidence locker to see Coulson sitting at the desk, the little evidence that had been collected for Agent Barton's missing person's case, scattered across the table. Sighing slightly he walked forward so he was standing on the opposite side of the desk, before he dropped a case file on the desk, startling Coulson.

"What's this?" asked Coulson looking up at Fury.

"This would be your new mission."

"I can't, I need to find Barton."

"It's been five weeks since he disappeared. Two since that video was sent, It-"

"He's still alive, we saw that," interrupted Coulson.

"Everybody saw it. Every agent, analyst and janitor received the same email, yet you haven't found out anything new. You've reached a dead end."

"Don't say that," protested Coulson. "I'm not giving up on him."

"And I didn't ask you too. But you can't keep staring at the same evidence and hope that something different will be there.

"There are active missions that need you to lead them."

"Sir-"

"I will make it an order if I have too," interrupted Fury as he stood up straighter. "Work the active cases, search for Barton in your spare time. But this agency comes first, not Barton."

With that Fury stalked out of the room, hating himself for what he'd just done, but he couldn't have one of his best agents out of active duty searching for an asset that for all intensive purposes had disappeared off the face of the earth.

If anything new came up, he'd be the first one to let Coulson restart the search again, until then though he had an international agency to run.

.

 **-SHIELD—**

.

Coulson stalked into one of the main analyst hubs, making a beeline for Agent Phelps. The younger agent was slouched in the desk chair with his feet up on the desk and the keyboard resting in his lap. If it wasn't for the speed that Phelps was typing at, he looked a dead ringer for Barton. The confident attitude that oozed from him stating he was the best man in the room. It was just like Barton when the missing agent wanted to be noticed.

"Phelps," said Coulson as his only greeting, making Phelps jump slightly.

"Coulson?" smiled Phelps as he brought his feet off the desk and looked up at the older agent. "What's up? Never mind, I know what you're here for. This is the list of all the flights leaving Mexico in the week since Barton went missing. All but three names check out," Phelps pointed to the three highlighted names at the top on the list. "One turned out to be a US government official who has an illegitimate child down there and he's keeping her and the mother off the press radar, along with off the radar of his current wife and three legitimate children," Phelps smirked. "Did you know I could totally make more money selling this kind of information to the tabloids?"

Coulson arched an eyebrow.

"But I wouldn't because I love my job here and you know, national security and all that. Moving on, the second name turned out to be British Intelligence with an off-books mission. I didn't dig too deeply into that, last time I dug through the MI6 servers I nearly got caught."

"I didn't think you got caught?"

"I don't, that's why I said 'nearly'. Anyway the third name I passed onto Agent Dominga, turns out it was the missing link in her human trafficking case. She's now wrapping up the case and thirty-two children were saved. Not a bad outcome."

"That's it?" asked Coulson, his temper rising at Phelps calling that a good outcome. A good outcome would be having a location for where Barton was being held.

"Yeah," shrugged Phelps.

"What about the airport my source gave us?"

"The only plane that flew out of that airstrip was an American millionaire who died while on vacation, his body was flown to a small airstrip outside of Denver and collected by his daughter. I checked the footage of the CCTV at both airports. Pilot, co-pilot, one dude in a suit and a coffin got and off again. No one was carrying another body."

"And you're sure it was this..."

"Henry Alexander Chaswick III," provided Phelps. "Electronically, I'm sure it's this guy. Not sure I can prove it any more than that unless you actually want me to go dig the old guy up and compare his corpse with his last drivers license."

"Yes, I bloody well want you to dig him up and get a fucking DNA sample while your at it!" snapped Coulson before turning around and leaving.

"You're joking, right?" called Phelps. "Coulson?"

.

 **-SHIELD—**

.

Coulson passed Fury a file as he sat down in front of the director's desk. "Antigua was a bust, Jefferson broke his leg and Dunbar is in medical with a-"

"Sir," called Agent Hill as she burst into Fury's office. "We've received another one."

"Does nobody know how to knock on a door anymore," growled Fury in frustration.

"Sir, there's another email with a video of Barton."

"What? When did it come in?" asked Coulson.

"Five minutes ago. I've got Phelps tracing the sender as we speak, and Kadrey going through the footage."

"Anything useful?" asked Fury.

"It's dated this time."

Fury clicked through his emails, selecting the right one he opened up the video file, turning the screen so that Coulson who was now around Fury's side of the desk could also see it.

This time Barton was lying on his back on a table, his arms hanging over the edge, blood dripping from his wrists. His head was turned towards the camera, where he was glaring at the viewers, defiance in his eyes.

"Eight weeks," tutted a dark haired man coming into view. He stood behind Barton, a long knife in his hands. "Eight weeks I've had the _amazing_ Hawkeye, I'm starting to think you guys don't want him back.

"Or maybe you don't believe this is live." The guy made a dramatic sigh, "Fine, here you go. Today's paper." He held up a newspaper pointing at the date. "Now, do your Google search or whatever it is you secret spy agencies do to find out information. You'll be able to see that it's real." The man tossed it over his shoulder before grinning at the camera again.

"Now, where was I, oh yes slicing Hawkeye's wrist." The man sliced another gash through Barton's right forearm. Coulson saw the small twitch in Barton's eyes that told him the younger man was in pain, but he didn't call out. Instead he kept staring at the camera.

"Don't worry it's not deep, and he's got what? 4-5 litres of blood in him? Now I have given him a paralytic combined with a mild sedative, one of my own making of course, so his heart rate is slower than normal so how long do you think he has left to live?"

The screen went black.

"That's it?" asked Coulson in disbelief. Less than three minutes worth of video.

"Do we have a name for this guy?" asked Fury.

"I've got the facial recognition program running," answered Hill.

"The paper?"

"Real, today's front page of the UK's The Guardian."

"So he's in England?" asked Coulson.

"Not necessarily," sighed Fury. "That paper prints worldwide."

"I've called the London field office; they have a team tracking all inbound flights from eight weeks ago. Checking passenger manifests, and conducting background checks, just in case," shrugged Hill, knowing that no flights out of Mexico had turned up anything so she didn't think this would be any different.

 **.**

 **-SHIELD—**

 **.**

"Anything?" asked Coulson.

"Nothing," sighed Hill. "This mystery man isn't in any database. And London came up empty."

"It's been five days and you're telling me we still have jack shit!" snapped Coulson.

"No, I'm saying we don't have an ID, but we've worked out his height. From knowing Barton's height we can work out the height of the table and therefore this guy is 185cm. Using facial markers we can work out that he's between 30 and 40 years old and with no discerning accent."

"Barton can change his accent at will," interrupted Coulson as he started to pace. "That doesn't mean anything."

"No but I've got a friend at the FBI Behaviour Unit that I sent the audio too, she says there is no hesitation between words, he's not being careful with his speech patterns. Which means we can rule out places where locals have stronger accents such as New Orleans, West Virginia, or Boston.

"Great, so we've only got the rest of the country to search through," growled Coulson, running his hand through his hair. "What about a code? Is Barton telling us anything?" He knew the answer was no to that question aswell. Coulson had watched the video so many times that he'd lost count, other than the one eye twitch, Barton hadn't moved. He was perfectly immobilised.

"There's no code," sighed Hill. "Phelps is going through University yearbooks, this guy is intelligent, there's a possibility he went to an Ivy League School." At this point they were all at a loss of where else to look for the mystery guy holding Barton.

"Barton has been missing for ten weeks and the only thing we know is his height. You guys are meant to be the best at finding out information, so find me some goddamn information!" Yelled Coulson at the room of analysts.

"You can call me Sanson."

Coulson spun around as the voice that he would never forget was suddenly echoing around the room. Every computer screen flickered before going black and then being replaced with the face of Barton's mystery jailer, laughing like a madman.

 **.**

 **-SHIELD—**

 **.**

 **AN:** I'm not American, and have never been to America so what I know about strong accents are only what I recognise from movies/TV. The West Virginia accent is apparently what Jodie Foster was portraying in movie The Silence of the Lambs. If I'm wrong, let me know and I'll change it, same goes if anybody knows of stronger/more distinctive accents, I'll add those in.

Also, does anybody know what the mildest/hardest to recognise American accent is?


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: I apologise for the delay in updates, I've had exams to achieve my Post Grad Diploma where you had to get 95% to pass! But while trying to study, my boss f****d off to greener pastures and I was left to work in a department with a 20% staff deficit! All while the big boss expected me to continue running a normal service! Then after 3 months when I'd fixed everything the guy that buggered off, came back! Changed everything I put in place and then stopped my promotion! To say that I was frustrated is an understatement, so this fic got put on hold for a bit while I tried to work out where I had gone wrong in life.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

.

"Would you like to see your boy?" asked Sanson. "He's alive, barely. Apparently loosing more than two thirds of his bodies blood volume didn't agree with him. see for yourself."

Coulson watched as Sanson moved out of view of the camera, the picture zooming out to show Barton slumped against the wall, a leather collar around his neck, with a metal chain securing it to the wall. Coulson could see that Barton was unconscious, and looked extremely pale. His wrists were bandaged, but even from this distance Coulson could see the blood seeping through.

"I needed a few more blood donations from my resident Hawk," said Sanson, walking over to Barton, gripping his chin, making Barton look at the camera.

Barton's eyes flickered open for a moment before closing again.

Hill walked over to Phelps, leaning down she whispered next to him, concealing her mouth from the screens. "Trace the feed."

"Already on it," muttered Phelps. "It's pinging all over the globe."

"What do you want?" asked Coulson. "You have my agent for a reason."

Sanson grinned, "Maybe I just like to play with other people's toys."

"It's been two and a half months, I'm sure there is something else."

"I was told you were a clever one."

"By Barton?" Coulson questioned. He doubted that Barton would give this guy information on SHIELD but everybody had a breaking point. Even Barton, and ten weeks was a long time to be a captive.

Sanson laughed, "The Hawk does a lot of cursing, strangely in Russian which is odd, 'cause as far as I could tell he's only been to Russia twice since he's worked for SHIELD."

Coulson gave an internal sigh of relief, if Barton was still cursing then he still had some fight in him.

"So here's what you're going to do for me, there is a file within the depths of your Hub. I need it destroyed. It's in paper format so I can't do it myself, as you can see, there isn't much I can't do with a computer. Are you having fun Agent Phelps?"

Phelps snapped his head up from the computer that he was working on, the code in front of flickering before an error message appeared then the screen went black.

"He can see us," whispered Hill to Coulson, "All of us."

"And hear you, Agent Hill," said Sanson standing up and walking closer to the camera, blocking their view of Barton. "You look a lot prettier than your ID photo. That looks like a mug shot, yet the only arrest you've had was when you were fifteen and hacked into your school admissions office. Yet you were smiling in that photo."

Hill kept her face blank as she stared up at the man on screen. How did he know all this? How was he getting all of his information? Other than the videos in the emails, there was no trace of anybody hacking into the SHIELD servers. This guy was a ghost.

"You're reference number is 26-78132."

"That's an SSR personel ID number," whispered Hill.

"You have one hour t-"

"He's ...not ...alone," hissed Barton, who was now standing in the spot Sanson had been standing before he collapsed, having hit the guy in the head. Coulson could see he was breathing heavily and looked like he was going to pass out, his focus drifting to the floor.

"Barton, do you know where you are?" asked Coulson getting the young man's attention. "Barton?"

Clint looked up at the screen, locking eyes with Coulson. "I-"

A gunshot sounded loudly through the speakers, Clint's eyes widened in surprise, as a red spot formed on his chest. "Shit," he muttered before collapsing backwards, hitting his head on the wall as he went.

"Bloody hell!" yelled Sanson as he got up off the floor. "Guess the Hawk has still got some fight in him, and I was just getting to know him," he shrugged. "Okay, fuck the file. It's nonsense anyway, I just wanted to see how far you would go for your agent." Sanson pushed Clint's body with his toe, "Moot point now."

"Well, it was fun while it lasted, guess I'll have to find something else to play with. Bye now."

The screen turned black before returning to the normal SHIELD screensaver.

Hill looked to Coulson, who's mouth was open in shock. Looking around the room, not a single agent or analyst was moving. Silence reigned, a pin being dropped would have been heard with perfect clarity.

Turning to the nearest computer she pulled up the base security feed. Every image she flicked to showed little movement, agents, analysts, medical staff and scientists were gathered around screens, some with their hands over their mouths, others talking, all of their duties abandoned. Everybody had just witnessed Clint Barton's demise.

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

 **AN: Short and sweet but there will be more to come. Thoughts and opinions always welcome.**

 **(PS. I passed my exam!)**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Thanks to everybody who reviewed and the well wishes, they meant a lot. As promised, here is a nice quick update which is also twice as long as any of the previous chapters. I hope no one finds Coulson a bit OOC in this, remember he's under pressure. Enjoy!**

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

"Phelps, continue to track the feed, I-"

"I can't, the feed-"

"I WANT THAT BASTARD FOUND!" yelled Coulson, turning to face Phelps.

"Agent Coulson!" snapped Hill stepping in front of the senior agent. "Take a walk."

Coulson faltered for a second, looking at the young confident woman in front of him who was staring straight at him, blocking his view of agent Phelps. Gritting his teeth he turned around and stormed out of the room.

Hill released the breath she realised she had been holding once the door had slammed shut behind Coulson, turning around she looked at Phelps who was sitting with his mouth hanging open.

"You realise that I've only ever seen Barton stand up to Coulson like that," stated Phelps. "And live."

"Find me something, anything. I don't care if it's so thin on evidence that it's anorexic. Coulson won't be gone for long and we need to have something."

Phelps nodded quickly, "Okay, I'm not sure what, but sure, pulling miracles out of nowhere is what we do, right?"

Hill didn't answer only looked around the room as people still continued to stare at her. She was a junior agent that had just told a senior agent where to go, and she was still standing. She was sure the consequences of what she just did would hit any minute now, so taking another deep breath she stood up a bit straighter and addressed the room. Time to make the most of being in this position.

"Listen up people; I don't believe Barton is dead."

"We just watched Barton get shot. In the chest. How is he not dead?" interrupted one of the analysts.

"It was a small calibre round probably a 22, if you want to kill somebody with that you need to shoot them in the head. With the angle that the shot came from, it's probable that the bullet didn't go that deep. It certainly didn't go straight through."

"How'd you know?"

"No blood splatter," shrugged Hill stating like it was obvious. "Sanson has been playing with us, playing with Barton. He told us he wanted a file, even though he said it wasn't important I want to know what that file is." Hill pointed to the analyst that had interrupted her. "Call The Hub, get a copy to us."

"On it."

"He's leading up to something, testing us. He planned to shoot Barton." The realisation of that stopped her train of thought for a moment as something else occurred to her. She looked across to another analyst. "Call medical, I want a report from the trauma team on everything it would take to treat a wound like Barton just received. If we can't track this guy, maybe we can track his purchases."

The analyst nodded in agreement before picking up the nearest phone.

"Everybody else I need every SHIELD system on every base, checked and double checked for a breach. In fact, I want every computer, laptop and smart phone owned by every employee checked."

"How on earth are we meant to catalogue that?" asked one analyst in doubt.

"I don't care if you start with Agent Aaron in accounting or the SHIELD base in Algeria," shrugged Hill. "Just get it done."

Nobody argued as they all turned back to their computer screens and started to work.

"Did you know that you're quite scary when you're giving orders?" asked Phelps quietly.

Hill smirked, "Just find me something to present to Coulson."

"Yes Ma'am."

.

-SHIELD—

.

Coulson hadn't realised how far or even where he had walked to until he pushed open an exterior door. The wind whipped the door open so far that it bounced off the exterior wall with a crash. Taking a few steps he realised he was near the area by the outside range that Barton used for his archery practice. Taking a few deep breaths he walked down towards one of the targets.

 _Barton was dead. Barton was dead. Barton was dead._

It kept running through his head over and over again. Barton was dead!

"I haven't seen you look this stressed since Barton went undercover on the Sawyer Op," said Fury coming up behind Coulson.

"Barton nearly died on that Op, and now he really is dead," sighed Coulson turning to look at Fury. The fact that the director knew why he was out here, didn't surprise him. Fury knew everything.

"The kid is resilient, he's proved that time and time again," shrugged Fury.

"He was just shot in the chest," snapped Coulson, his temper returning.

Fury didn't say anything in return. He knew how Coulson was feeling, he'd lost agents before. Sometimes the only way to start accepting what had happened was to lose control.

"I don't know where else to look. I failed him. When I recruited him I told him he'd never be alone again. That someone would always have his back."

"Nobody is giving up. Hill certainly isn't, she has everybody searching for new leads as we speak," said Fury. "She also believes this guy is still playing us."

Fury watched as Coulson thought that over. Seeing the agent visibly pull himself back together again. Emotions being pulled back into their box, walls being built back up until the man standing in front of him was the experienced agent that was the grounding force of many field operations.

"Barton said there was another player," pointed out Coulson. "But he couldn't have been in the same room as them or he would of seen Barton stand up."

"How does that help?" asked Fury getting Coulson to carry on his train of thought.

"You want to keep a secret, you don't tell anybody. If you have to you could tell one other person, anymore than that and it's no longer a secret."

"So what's your point?"

"This isn't a one man operation. Barton has seen one other person, the tech guy. Likelihood is that this is something big, something with more people involved than these two. The way this whole thing has played out, from the abduction, to the emails, and now this live video. This is a large group, they're co-ordinated, it's like Hydra have risen again."

Fury huffed in response, "I'm pretty sure we can rule out Hydra on this one, your hero took them out a long time ago."

Coulson smirked, "With something this large, there must be chatter of some kind."

"I thought Phelps had checked that angle."

"He did, but-" Coulson's phone beeped, pulling it out he looked at the message before looking up at Fury. "Sanson is back on screen."

.

-SHIELD—

.

"Director Fury, so nice to see you," laughed Sanson as Fury and Coulson walked back into the room.

"Where's my agent?" asked Fury, glaring up at the screen.

"Oh he's right here. One tough cookie, he's still breathing." The camera zoomed out as Sanson pointed to a table near to him where Barton was laying on his back, gasping as he struggled to breathe.

"So here's my thing, I promise to save the life of _your agent_ if you do something for me."

"And what would that be?" asked Fury.

"This is Thomas Wheeler," said Sanson holding up a photograph of a man in an orange jumpsuit. "He's currently in jail near Chicago, I forget which one." shrugged Sanson. "I want him dead, well not me specifically but someone I know wants him dead. Don't worry he's a child molester among other things so think of it as doing the world a favour."

Sanson turned back to Barton, turning the young man's head towards the camera, blood dribbled from his mouth. "Now I figure your boy has about fifteen minutes and that's probably pushing it. He should really take better care of himself," he said whimsically. "My number is programmed into Agent Robbins' cell, but it will only be active for the next nine and a half minutes. If I don't receive a call from the Director himself then Agent Barton is dead."

The screen went black as the video cut off abruptly.

"Find me Agent Robbins," ordered Fury.

"We have two," answered Hill who already had her tablet in hand, turning it to show the director two pictures. One of a young woman the other of an older man.

"Call them both."

"Sir, I have an Agent Jayne Robbins wanting to speak to you," shouted one of the analysts from the centre of the room.

"That was fast," muttered Coulson.

"This guy is broadcasting across the entire SHIELD network, every SHIELD employee who is near a screen can see what's going on," informed Hill.

"Tell me about Robbins," ordered Fury.

"Agent Jayne Robbins, thirty two years old, from Chicago, she's been an agent for two years, before that she was with the FBI for five years. We recruited her after she was dismissed from the FBI after she disobeyed a hold order, but in doing so she saved the lives of three girls who were being held hostage by two gunmen. That's what she does sir; she's the lead agent for our hostage rescue team."

"He's still playing with us," growled Coulson, clenching his fists as he tried to keep his temper under control.

"The Target?"

"Exactly as he said. Thomas Wheeler was incarcerated two months ago with various charges, including child molestation with links to child pornography. He was also suspected in trafficking children for the purpose of sex crimes but that could never be proven. He's been in solitary confinement for 91% of his time in prison due to another prisoner trying to kill him," said Agent Phelps, putting the information on the large screen.

"Put Agent Robbins through," ordered Fury.

"Yes, Sir."

"Agent Robbins, talk to me."

"Director, Sir. I've got an unknown number on my phone. It's saved under the name Barton. Sir, I've never met Agent Barton."

"You've never noticed it before?"

"According to my phone it was added this morning. Sir, my phone had an automatic update this morning," said Agent Robbins.

"Send the number through agent and stay on the line."

"Yes sir."

"You think calling is a good idea?" asked Coulson. They had another four minutes on the clock and as much as he wanted to save Barton and bring him home, he didn't like the idea of negotiating with Sanson. It just screamed more trouble for them.

"You want me not to call?" asked Fury in surprise. Ten minutes ago he was trying to calm his senior agent down before he tore into more analysts in his search for Barton.

"I didn't say that."

"I understand Coulson, but he's broadcasting to the entire agency. If I don't call we will have an uprising."

"So not because we actually want Barton back?" snapped Coulson.

"I do want Barton back. Don't ever think that I would hang one of my agent's out to dry," warned Fury.

Coulson knew in his heart that, Fury would always do his best to bring an agent home, but this situation seemed to spiralling further and further out of their control. They had one guy who seemed to know everything about SHIELD, could get in and out of their database without detection, and now he was holding the director himself for ransom. He started to wonder if it was anybody but Barton at risk if he would advise the director to not call Sanson back, but it was Barton and the words he knew logically he should be saying would never come out.

"Call the number," ordered Fury.

"Trap and trace," whispered Hill to Phelps.

"On it."

After several rings every screen in the room switched to show Sanson.

"Good morning Director Fury, or is it afternoon where you are? Time zones, who can keep track?" laughed Sanson.

"Wheeler will be dead by the end of the day," said Fury.

"Excellent," grinned Sanson.

"And Barton?"

"He'll be all nice and shiny, in fact I've already started." Sanson moved backwards to show Barton still on the table, this time with an added chest drain.

Coulson focused on Barton's breathing, it seemed to have eased, but the lines around his eyes showed that he was still in an incredible amount of pain.

Sanson held a pair of forceps in one hand, lowering the tip to Barton's skin. Pushing them further and further inside of the young agent. Barton's eyes that were once closed snapped open suddenly, his hands clenched, his back arching as the pain intensified.

Twenty minutes later and Barton was unconscious again having only cried out once. Sanson snipped the surgical thread as he finished tying the last stitch. "You have two hours to complete the assassination of Thomas Wheeler, or you'll get your agent back. In a body bag."

The screen went black again.

"Find Agent May, fill her in on the situation. Tell her to remove Wheeler from the equation," ordered Fury. "Those exact words."

May would understand, she would remove Wheeler from the prison, fake his death and hide the man away. Fury was not going to assassinate anybody without checking every detail, more than once. His agency would not be manipulated for another man's game. He stood up to the World Security Counsel, he could stand up to this guy.

"What else have we got?"

The room stayed silent for a moment before Phelps piped up. "The phone tap bounced around the country so I couldn't tack Sanson, but I've got the data from this trace and the data we had from the other attempts overlaying, maybe we'll get a match a ping that overlaps."

"Is that all?" asked Coulson.

"No, I tried tracking down the name Sanson. It's not that common in the US, in the last census there was less than three thousand people with that surname. It is however most prevalent in the state of Washington, which could explain the not so distinct accent that the FBI mentioned."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, I think this guy spent a lot of time in the UK. An ex-girlfriend of mine was from England, ' _bloody hell'_ was her go to curse. Anything from spilt tea or someone cutting her off on the highway, she'd say it all the time. Maybe they'll be a match between those born in Washington and those having lived in the UK."

"You've found something else?" asked Fury, focusing on Phelps.

"Yes," muttered Phelps looking abit unsure of himself. Taking a deep breath he continued. "When you do a simple google search the top answer is a Charles-Henri Sanson, in the 18th century he was a French executioner, who executed more than 3,000 people including a king. In fact there is a whole family of Sanson executioners. I've got a family tree being traced as we speak."

"So either this guy wants to live up to the family name or Sanson means nothing more than a codename, and we still have nothing," sighed Coulson.

.

-SHIELD—

.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: Sorry for the delay with this chapter, I wanted to push the timetable forward and found that challenging. Hopefully I succeeded and did it some justice. Enjoy.**

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

 **MIA 76 DAYS**

Fury stalked through the corridors of the Triskelion, until he reached his destination on one of the lower levels. Entering through a locked door, his eyes focused on the man hunched in a chair, his wrists handcuffed to the table in front of him.

"Mr Wheeler, do you know why you're here?" asked Fury stalking into the interrogation room to stand in front of the younger man.

The man sitting at the table shook his head, his shoulder length dark blonde hair whipping around his face hitting the stubble of his beard. Fury noticed he looked younger than he appeared in the photo Sanson had showed him, closer to Barton's own age of twenty-six.

"You are here, because of this man." Fury showed a screenshot of Sanson. "Do you know this man?"

Wheeler shook his head.

"Mr Wheeler, I'd like to remind you that the rest of the world currently thinks that you are dead, and I'm quite happy to make that a reality."

"I...I've never seen that guy before," stuttered Wheeler. "I swear."

Fury looked more closely at the guy, he wasn't lying. The guy was sweating profusely, twisting hands together, he wasn't just nervous, he was petrified. "Sanson."

"What?" asked Wheeler suddenly, his eyes widening in surprise.

"You know Sanson?" Fury prodded.

"Erm...kinda, never met the guy. He was a contact on the forum."

"Forum?"

"Yeah, it was the way that..erm... you know..."

"No, I don't know," glared Fury. The analysts had produced a very thin file on Wheeler and his most recent arrest record.

Wheeler took a deeper breath, "He was on the forum which discussed the better sites for getting pictures of what we wanted."

"Kiddie porn," scoffed Fury.

Wheeler shrugged in acknowledgment. Fury threw a notepad down on the table with a pen, I want the details of the website and names you spoke of.

Wheeler hurried to pick the pen and paper up, "He wasn't like the rest on there. Really only spoke to one other person."

"Who?"

"Erm, some guy with the screen name Red Grant."

"Anything else?"

"They didn't seem that interested in what the others were sharing."

"How did you notice this? I assume this was all anonymous."

"I set the site up, had the admin rights. I could see everything."

"Why did you let them keep talking if you were suspicious of them."

"'cause when they provided goods, they were really good," explained Wheeler his eyes lighting up in memory. Fury clenched his teeth in disgust as he started walking out of the room, grabbing the pen and paper as he went.

The door of the interrogation room closed behind Fury, he looked to the left to see Agent May leaning against the wall. "What now?" she asked.

"We make him disappear. He doesn't go back into general population. He's dead to the world."

"You know it would be easier if I just killed him."

"Probably, but he might still have his uses. Put him in the hold."

"Yes Sir," nodded May as she pushed away from the wall and entered the interrogation room

.

 **-SHIELD-**

.

Hill kicked the chair Phelps was snoozing in as she passed to get to her own desk.

"'m 'wake," groaned Phelps.

"Sure you are," huffed Hill.

"Tell me again why we had to move to New York City, I liked my bunk in the Upstate base."

"'Cause that is where Coulson is based and the director didn't want him butting his nose in any deeper."

"The director said that?"

"Well not in those exact words but yes. So here we are and please tell me you've got something new as I'm now reporting directly to Director Fury and quite frankly that scares the crap out of me."

Phelps let out a low chuckle, he had serious doubts that anybody scared Hill, but he wouldn't call her on it. "I've got a search going comparing the list medical gave us and medical equipment that's going to places other than official registered medical facilities to see if there is a match. So far I've found twenty-six unlicensed doctors that are still practicing, most of them working for the Mob, Mafia or Triad and then there's some guy in Queens who I think is a germophobe. Coulson is checking them out."

"What? Why Coulson? I just said Fury didn't want him near this," Hill said in surprise.

Phelps shrugged, "I didn't really have a choice, he sort of just took the details, then took a Quinjet."

"He's gone alone?"

"I think he roped in a few extra agents, but yeah," Phelps sighed. "Look, Coulson doesn't do so well sitting still. I mean he can sit at a desk for hours and do paperwork, but having no leads and just waiting, he can't do it."

Hill nodded in understanding before waiving a file, "I've got the transcripts from Fury's interrogation with Wheeler. We need to track down a Red Grant."

Phelps looked up in surprise, "What, like in the Bond movie?"

Hill looked at Phelps in confusion.

"Don't tell me you've never seen _From Russia With Love_? You work for the biggest spy network in the world and you've never seen the best spy movie of all time?"

"Can't say that I have," shrugged Hill.

"We are totally going to have to rectify that," laughed Phelps, "In the mean time, Red Grant was a Spy that was tasked with stealing a Russian decoder, he worked for the agency SPECTRE."

"Ghost, well that's enlightening. More code words, more references to nonsense," groaned Hill as she slumped down in her chair.

"Maybe not," shrugged Phelps. "If Sanson is the executioner..."

"Sanson hasn't executed Barton though."

"Not yet," muttered Phelps. "Look, we all know that unless we find Barton soon, Sanson will kill him. So what if this Red Grant is the acquirer? Maybe he's the guy who picked up Barton in Mexico, or he acquired the equipment for Sanson. Maybe SPECTRE is just a stand in for another group of individuals with nefarious purpose."

"Neferious?" asked Hill arching her eyebrows. "Besides you really think that these guys who are so careful that they are for all intensive purposes ghosts, that they would make an error like having their code names after fictional characters from movies?"

"Why not?" shrugged Phelps. Seeing that Hill didn't look convinced he continued. "Take Barton, his code name is Hawkeye, the same name he had as a teenager in the circus. The smart thing when he joined SHIELD would have been to change code names, become a totally different person, but whether it was his decision or Fury's they chose not to."

"That's one case."

"Okay, take Captain America."

"Really, you're going to compare Barton to Captain America?"

"What, you don't think Barton is in the same league as Captain America? Both prefer archaic weapons, one a bow the other a shield. Both have worn ridiculous costumes and both-"

"Barton doesn't like people!" pointed out Hill. "Captain America was meant to be the perfect Mr Nice-Guy."

Phelps laughed, "All I'm saying is code names don't always have to make a lot of sense, they're there to be remembered and distract from the real identity."

Hill shrugged, "I'll leave that with you. I've got the SSR file on one Daniel Reeves, a scientist who worked with Erskine, died the day Project Rebirth came to fruition. Lived in NYC, born in Ireland."

"Ireland?"

"Yeah."

"Red Grant, the fictional version that is, his mother was Irish, he grew up with his aunt when his mother died in childbirth."

"Oh you've got to be kidding me," groaned Hill as she dropped the file on Reeves down on the desk. "Reeves grew up with his aunt after his parents died when he was less than a year old." Hill didn't like coincidences.

Phelps picked up the file and began to read. "According to this they didn't find Reeves body."

"But he'd have to be like eighty years old or something it can't be him," pointed out Hill. "Okay, let's run with your theory that Red Grant is the code name for Reeves who worked for some sort of ghost organisation. We know for a fact that Hydra had infiltrated project Rebirth, so let's assume that this shadow organisation also infiltrated, but seeing as this is the first time we've ever heard of this organisation we can assume that they are more secretive than even SHIELD."

"You know what they say about assumptions," shrugged Phelps.

Hill glared at him before continuing, "What if, the reason we've never heard of this ghost organisation is because it's a family affair? We think Sanson might be following in his ancestors traditions so what if Reeves has a family and they are following in their family tradition?"

"Other than an aunt in Ireland, Reeves had no family," answered Phelps.

"Not according to his SSR file, but that doesn't mean he didn't have something on the side."

Phelps smirked before turning to his computer, "I can run with that."

.

 **-SHIELD-**

.

 **MIA 78 DAYS**

 **.**

"Alright Coulson, why am I here?" asked Agent Greer walking into the conference room, pocketing his aviation sunglasses as he went.

"Barton," said Coulson flatly.

"You found him?" asked Greer, his interest perking up. He'd had a bit of a soft spot for the younger agent ever since Coulson, Delancey and himself had picked up the kid in Baltimore four years ago.

"No, but we're going to."

"You've got a lead?"

"I've got twenty. I've already checked out four and found nothing, We need to check out the rest."

"Okay," said Greer, his optimism waning slightly. "Anybody else joining us on this chase?"

"Delancey is en route from Dubai, he should be here in about three hours."

"Just the three of us?"

"No I've got Walker flying us a-"

"Amanda Walker? Are you kidding me? That woman is crazy, you couldn't find anybody a little bit more sane?"

Coulson smirked, "She volunteered."

"Of course she did," sighed Greer as he took a seat. "That's still twenty targets and only three of us, four counting Walker. Better if there were two teams, hell, it'll be better if we had twenty teams and hit them all at once."

"We can't, it's just us."

Greer watched Coulson carefully, he'd known the man a long time and he knew when he was being played. "We don't have authorization do we?"

Coulson tilted his head slightly, not quite a shrug but Greer got the message. "Great, I'm going to be on suspension again, or worse get shot."

Coulson smirked, "Phelps is coming in from the New York City office to handle communications."

"Great, does the kid know that yet?"

"He will do."

"Alright, where are we heading first?"

"Charleston, South Carolina."

.

 **-SHIELD-**

.

 _"_ _Drop site in five,"_ came Walker's voice through the comms.

"Alright, I have surveillance and the roof is clear," said Phelps from where he sat on the floor of the Quinjet with his laptop out.

 _"_ _Okay boys, doors are open."_

Delancey got up from his seat, tucking his baseball cap into the inside pocket of his jacket before tightening the straps on his shoot, "See you on the ground."

Phelps waved as the bigger man jumped out of the jet, quickly followed by Greer and Coulson. "We're good Walker, you can close the ramp."

 _"Copy that."_

Phelps, clicked a few keys on the laptop to bring up the GPS locators of the three agents, monitoring their speed, and drop rate. All three were on target for the landing spot.

" _Touchdown,"_ confirmed Delancey, followed quickly by Greer and Coulson.

"Copy that," said Phelps. "All clear on satellite and thermal."

Twenty minutes later Coulson was back on the radio. _"_ _Walker, ETA?"_

"Two minutes out," answered Walker before looking to the co-pilot seat where Phelps was now sat. "He sounds pissed."

"I'm guessing there was no Barton," shrugged Phelps. "That was target six."

"Where is target seven?" asked Walker.

"Los Angeles."

"That's two thousand miles and a six hour flight, I'll need to put my bird down and re-fuel."

Phelps scoffed, "Yeah, I'll let you have that conversation with Coulson."

.

 **MIA 92 DAYS**

 **.**

"Coulson, do not engage!" ordered Fury.

 _"Sir, I-"_

"Coulson, I have an FBI Special Agent Charles Bernard on the line, you are about to blow a sting, ten months in the making."

Coulson groaned, " _Do we trust the source?"_

"I've got the FBI director on the other line, giving me enough grief to know that I'll be in meetings all of next week if we blow this for them."

 _"Standing down,"_ sighed Coulson.

Fury bowed his head as Coulson signed off. Twelve targets down, still no Barton.

"Sir?" asked Hill quietly.

Fury let out a long breath before looking at the younger agent. "Yes?"

"We've found the entry point that allowed Sanson into our systems."

Fury turned to look at the young woman, arching an eyebrow to prompt her to continue.

"They hacked into Agent Seiver's daughter's school laptop," explained Hill.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but Agent Seiver's daughter is not a part of SHIELD."

"No Sir."

Fury sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Hill took that as her cue to continue. "Agent Seiver's daughter's laptop connects to their home network and her school network. The school network has a lot less security features than Seiver's home network and considerably less than the SHIELD network. Sanson could have hacked the daughter's laptop through the school network, then when she took it home, it would have been easier for Sanson to hack into Seiver's laptop through his home network, then once Seiver brought the laptop to work they had would have been able to access the SHIELD network, then after that-"

"I get the picture," interrupted Fury. "Have you managed to back trace the feed? Find Sanson?"

"Phelps is working on it as we speak."

"Good, when he finds Sanson, do not cut the feed."

"But-"

"We don't want Sanson to see us coming, I do not want him running and I don't want him killing Barton, not now."

"Yes Sir."

.

 **MIA 99 DAYS**

 **.**

Fury stood in front of the World Security Council, his hands clasped behind his back, as he concentrated on keeping his temper in front of some of the most powerful people in the world.

"Director Fury, Agent Barton although a remarkable young man is just that, one man. SHIELD cannot be held to ransom for the sake of one man," said Councilman Pierce.

"We're not giving Sanson anything," countered Fury.

"You're pandering to a mad man."

"A mad man who can get in and out of our systems undetected. The longer we keep him talking the longer we've got to figure it out and to find him, and ultimately make sure this doesn't happen again."

"You are putting thousands of lives at risk," pointed out Councilwoman Henly.

"I have a team working on the breach, while another team tracking the leads. Agents are working on the connection between Thomas Wheeler and Catherine Hornsby."

"This Catherine Hornsby, the second person he wants removed, what do we know about her?"

"She's an elementary school teacher from Minnesota. No criminal record, no significant debts, no-"

"Significant debts?" interrupted Councilman Malick.

"She has $300 on a credit card, and a $7,500 loan repayment plan. Plus a mortgage, nothing out of the ordinary."

"A school teacher and a pedophile. You sure she doesn't have some sordid secret?"

"All angles are being looked in to," reassured Fury.

"Director Fury, this organisation cannot be-"

"Right now, it would be a mistake to not follow these leads," interrupted Fury. "As always it's been a pleasure talking to you. Now I have a job to do, good day." Fury cut the signal, the screens in front of him turning black, only then did he let out a long breath. Nothing ever changed when dealing with the Council.

.

 **MIA 106 DAYS**

 **.**

Coulson stared at the screen, Barton was hanging by his wrists by a set of chains, his jaw clenched as his eyes stared forward at the camera. Sanson stood behind Barton, a leather whip gripped in his hand.

"You lied, Fury!" yelled Sanson as the whip hit Barton's back. Coulson watched as Barton scrunched his eyes up, before opening them to look straight at the camera, the only indication that showed he was in pain.

"I told you to take two people out." The whip smashed down again. "You hid them!" The whip came down again. "There is a reason and a plan. It's bigger than you. Bigger than me. Bigger than our Hawk. It is bigger than SHIELD in all it's glory." The whip came down each time Sanson made a statement. Coulson only had eyes on Barton, blood was now dripping from his mouth where he'd obviously bitten the inside of his mouth rather than yell out.

"You fucked it up!" The whip came down again. "I. Do. Not. Like. Games." Each word the whip came down harder on Barton's back. Barton, now though was letting out small grunts in response to the pain. he was no longer looking at the camera, his head bowed, his chin touching his chest, his breaths coming out in short, harsh gasps.

Sanson stopped the whipping, throwing the whip down on the near by table before walking in front of Barton to stare directly at the camera. "So this is the last time, your last chance. World Security Councilman Malick. Kill him, make it public, make it loud and make it permanent. Don't do that and your Hawk dies, right here, right now."

Coulson still had his eyes on Barton, watching as the younger man raised his head, the hard look of steel in his eyes. He'd seen that look before. Barton wore it when he'd made a decision and wasn't about to back down. The slight tense in the muscles of Barton's arms, the clench of his fists above his head. Coulson knew exactly what Barton had decided to do, right before he leapt into action.

Barton used his arms and core muscles to hoist his legs up and wrap them around Sanson's neck. Squeezing and twisting at the same time as he used his whole body weight to pull Sanson closer to him. Sanson yelled as he grabbed a hold of Barton's legs, as he tried to get free of Barton's hold. Barton used the opportunity to lift his arms up further so that he could shift the chain that was around his wrists up off of the hooks in the ceiling. Losing his balance, Barton crashed down off of Sanson's shoulders, taking Sanson to the floor with him.

Coulson couldn't help but lean forward and grip the edge of the desk. "He's going to kill him," he muttered.

"Barton or Sanson?" huffed Fury as he watched Barton get to his feet first, even if it was unsteadily. Fury had seen the look in Barton's eyes to. That was a man who had made the decision to end things on his terms, and if he was going to die, he would be taking Sanson with him. There was no doubt in Fury's or Barton's mind on that.

.

 **-SHIELD-**

.

 **AN: I don't know anything about computers so the whole hacking network things - I guessed. Sorry to all those who know more than me. Next Chapter, is my favourite and I've been dying to get to this point since I started the whole thing.**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: I apologise for such the long delay in updating. Life kind of ran away with me. So here is the next chapter hopefully it won't disappoint. Enjoy!**

 **.**

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

Coulson watched the screen to see Barton grip the chain that connected his wrists together tighter. He was waiting. Waiting for Sanson to get to his feet. 

"What is he waiting for?" muttered one of the analysts closest to Coulson. 

Coulson couldn't answer, he had no idea what was going through Barton's head. He could see that the younger man had lost a significant amount of weight in the last three months that he'd been held captive. 

Barton had always been cautious when taking down an opponent, he would analyse his surrounds for exits, trip hazards and potential weapons along with his opponent's strengths and weaknesses. But right now Coulson didn't think it was the time to stall. Barton was the weakest one in this situation, he was malnourished, dehydrated and bleeding from multiple wounds. Coulson thought he needed to strike fast and strike hard. 

Sanson was on his feet now, his back to the camera as he faced Barton. "You're going to regret this," spat Sanson as he charged forward. 

Coulson held his breath as he watched Barton hold his ground, not moving a muscle. It was only when Sanson was nearly on top of Barton that he made a move. Dropping down to one knee, Barton brought his hands together to create one fist, then drove it up into Sanson's abdomen, winding the larger man. Barton got to quickly to feet, his hands still clasped together, he drove his right elbow down onto Sanson's back forcing him to the floor. 

"Step back, step back," muttered Coulson under his breath as he watched Sanson moving on the floor. Letting out a small sigh of relief when Barton did take two steps backwards so he was out of Sanson's reach. 

"You think you're clever?" laughed Sanson as he got back up to his feet. "What do you think this will achieve? I broke you. Nobody is coming for you. Nobody cares about you," taunted Sanson. "I own you." 

"I killed the last person who thought that," said Barton. Coulson was surprised at how gravelly Barton's voice had become. This was the first time he'd heard the younger man speak in weeks. "You can say hi to him when I send you to meet him." 

Barton didn't give Sanson a chance to say anything in return as he lunged forward, jumping off the ground, his hands clasped together in one fist, he twisted his whole body to the left driving his arms forward and across to the right, connecting with Sanson's right cheek half way through the move. Landing, he continued the movement bringing his fists up to his right side, before twisting his body from right to left, crossing down and connecting with the left side of Sanson's face. Keeping his feet firmly planted on the ground, he followed the movement through, twisting to the left to repeat the first movement and another punch to connect with the right side of Sanson's face again. 

Coulson watched as Sanson staggered to his knees, he was facing the camera so everybody watching could see the blood pouring out of Sanson's nose and bilateral cuts across his cheeks. 

"Don't stop," muttered Coulson as he saw Barton pause as he heaved a deep breath in, clearly exhausted. He raised his fists up again but was too late as Sanson brought his own fist up and smashed it into Barton's ribs. 

Barton crashed down, his head hitting the edge of the table that was in the corner of the room, the bloody whip that Sanson had placed on top of it earlier falling onto the floor next to Barton who was face down and not moving. 

"Such a shame," mocked Sanson as he pulled a gun from underneath his shirt, flicking the safety off he aimed it at Barton, keeping his gun trained on Barton, Sanson took his eyes off him and looked at the camera. "Don't worry, I'll return his corpse to you. He's become more hassle than he's worth." 

Barton used the opportunity to roll onto his back grabbing the whip and flicking it up towards Sanson, the tip cutting through his cheek and over his left eye, blinding him. Sanson screamed as he simultaneously used his left hand to cover his bleeding eye while his right fingers squeezed the trigger. 

Barton scrambled out of the way, as Sanson fired wildly in the direction he thought Barton was still in. Bullets ricocheting off the walls and floor as Barton tried to find cover.

"Damn it Barton," cursed Coulson as he watched Barton rush out from behind his cover and come up behind Sanson pulling the chain between his own wrists taught as he looped it over Sanson's neck and pulled, cutting off Sanson's air supply. 

Sanson gagged as he dropped the gun and tried to pull the chain away from his neck, moving his bloody hand away from his eye he tried to reach behind and Grab Barton's hair. 

"Duck down, get in tight," mumbled Coulson. Fury took a moment to look at the senior field agent. Coulson had been muttering to himself, since this fight had started. It reminded him of a coach at the ringside of a boxing match, only this outcome would be a lot more fatal. Though if this stopped Coulson from yelling at the analysts Fury wasn't going to stop him. 

Sanson had stopped trying to reach Barton with his hands had changed tactics and was now attempting to elbow Barton in the ribs and abdomen, anywhere he could reach. Barton was only letting out short grunts as he tried to keep a tight hold around Sanson's throat, until a dull crack sounded through the speakers. Coulson recognised the distinct sound of ribs breaking.

Barton lost his grip as his breath whooshed out of him giving Sanson the opportunity he needed to grab hold of Barton's left wrist, pushing back with his hips, he threw Barton over his shoulder and towards the camera. 

Barton collided with the camera, knocking it over so that those watching could now only see up to Sanson's waist. The sound of Barton's body hitting something that sounded like metal scaffolding collapsing was the only thing that could be heard for several seconds. Barton wasn't in frame and Sanson stood hunched over his knees as he re-learnt how to breath. 

"How long do you think Barton can keep this up?" asked Fury quietly as the first seed of doubt crept into his mind that Barton wasn't going to make it out of this one. 

Coulson glanced at the director before looking back at the screen. "As long as he needs to," he said defiantly. he would not give up on Barton now. 

Barton had come back into the camera view point, being closer to the camera they could only see one up to Barton's mid calf, blood though was dripping from above the camera view and onto the floor. Coulson couldn't guess where this blood had come from, Barton had so many injuries that a lesser man wouldn't be standing at all. 

Without warning Barton lunged forward, a jagged pipe about the length of his forearm was held in both hands, swinging it like a baseball bat it connected with Sanson's head as he was still leaning over his knees trying to draw in enough breath. 

Sanson crashed down to the floor, Barton brought the pipe up again to swing it down on Sanson. This could be it thought Coulson. This could be the final blow that defeats Sanson. 

Before Barton's hit met its target Sanson kicked his leg out, his foot connecting with Barton's knee knocking Barton to the ground. 

"You can't win," spat Sanson his voice straining from the earlier strangulation. Using the wall for support, blood streaming down his face from a wound on his hairline he stood up and staggered the few feet to where the gun he had dropped earlier was lying on the floor. "Give up now and I'll make your death quick." 

"Get up, get up, get up," muttered Coulson as he gripped the desk in front of him tightly, his knuckles going white. 

"Ya know, I was thinking the same thing," said Barton as he stood quickly and thrust the pipe up underneath Sanson's ribs just as Sanson turned to face Barton, being caught by complete surprise. 

"Oh, good boy," gasped Sanson, the gun falling from his grip. He coughed causing blood to spew fromhis mouth. "Guess you're not completely broke after all." 

"You didn't break me, you dumb shit," spat Barton, ramming the pipe in further. 

"I think I did," gurgled Sanson as he started to drown in his own blood. Barton pulled the pipe out of Sanson's body, letting Sanson drop to the floor. Barton turned to keep his eyes focused on Sanson. 

Coulson could see Barton's face now as he knelt down and straddled Sanson's body, and he couldn't help the involuntary flinch the look in Barton's eyes caused. Sanson might have been right, something had broken in Barton. 

"Go. To. Hell." Growled Barton as he stabbed the pipe downwards and straight through the center of Sanson's chest. 

Sanson coughed before he said one last thing to Barton. Barton's eyes went wide as he stared down at Sanson's now dead body. 

"What did he say?" asked Coulson to the control room. "Anybody? I need to know what he said." Sanson had said something to Barton that had shocked him. Out of everything that Sanson had done to him in the last three months, it was only that last sentence that had scared Barton. 

Nobody answered, only the sound of fingers hitting keyboards could be heard as people tried to enhance the footage. 

"Do we have the capability to speak to Barton?" asked Fury. They'd had a conversation with Sanson in the past, hopefully they could communicate with Barton now. 

"No Sir, microphone is only one way." 

Coulson looked up at the screen to see that Barton had rolled off of Sanson's dead body and was crawling towards the camera, picking it up he cradled it against his body, blocking the view for a moment. When he set it back down, the lens was partially obscured with blood. Barton didn't bother wiping it away as he looked straight in to the camera. 

"I don't know if anybody is still watching this, or even fucking cares," growled Barton. "But I win. You hear me? I win!

"And I'm coming for you!" 

"He doesn't know it's us watching," said Coulson in surprise. "Somebody find out if that feed is going somewhere else?" 

"Sir, that's-" The analyst trailed off his sentence from the look Fury gave him. "Finding another feed, sir." 

Fury turned back to the screen to see Barton pick up Sanson's gun from the floor and walk out of the room, not once did the younger man look back.

.

-SHIELD—

 **AN: Next chapter we will be back with Clint's POV.**


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Hello all, a nice speedy update. This is the chapter that started this whole fic. I wrote this one and everything else came after. The build up to this took a lot longer than I anticipated, especially how many chapters I ended up writing with Clint being held captive. So I thank everybody who stuck with me and I hope the rest does not disappoint. Enjoy!**

 **.**

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

.

Clint walked out of the room he'd been held in for 106 days without a second look at Sanson. He just had to ignore how his whole body hurt and get out of here. 

The corridor he entered into was narrow and dark, he paused for a moment just to listen. Checking the clip in the gun he found two bullets left, with his back feeling like it was on fire and his hands still chained together he knew he wasn't in any condition to get into a second fight. 

Taking as deep a breath as he could with his broken ribs, Clint started moving down the corridor. Trying to keep his back straight and forcing himself not to limp even though his left knee shouted at him to stop moving and just lie down, but he knew if he stopped he wouldn't get back up again. He had to keep moving, he had to get out of here. 

The corridor ended with a set of concrete stairs, gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the feeling of his own blood sliding between his toes. Using the wall for support Clint started his climb, gritting his teeth every time his left knee took his whole body weight. By the time he reached the top he was breathing hard, his vision wavering as he leaned against the wall for support, with his body screaming at him to give in. 

"Damn it Barton," growled Clint to himself. "Get up!" 

Pushing away from the wall, he gripped the gun tighter in his left hand as he reached for the sliding bar on the metal door in front of him. Pulling the bar to its open position he then pushed the door open. The metal door scraped across the ground, not moving more than an inch. Bracing his right shoulder against the metal, he gritted his teeth as he pushed the door open just enough that he could squeeze through the gap.

Half way through the gap his back scraped against the door frame, sending a sharp spike of pain through his body, sending him to his knees. Clint gasped for breath as he tried to ride the pain out but that only succeeded in making his ribs hurt, forcing him into a coughing spree which pushed him down so he was on all fours, his head bowed. 

After what felt like a lifetime and the grey spots in front of his eyes had cleared, Clint focused on the ground in front of him, surprised when he didn't see the smooth concrete he'd been walking on before, instead it was the rough black of tarmac. Sitting back on his haunches, Clint looked up at the sky and smiled.

That really was sky above him. For the first time in three months he could see the sky. Blowing out a long breath, Clint started to push himself up to his feet. He wasn't safe yet, he couldn't stop here. He had to keep moving. 

Putting one foot in front of the other he started down the alleyway he was in and towards the street. He couldn't hear any sounds of traffic or people so wherever he was, it was not a populated area, of course Clint had no idea what time it was, other than it was night. His internal clock which used to be perfect was now none existent. The only reason he knew 106 days had passed was because Sanson kept reminding him of it, but even that could be false. 

Keeping close to the wall, Clint stepped out of the ally and kept walking. His senses on high alert, listening for anybody following him or looking for camera's that could be watching him. 

He seemed to be in an industrial area, which explained why there were no people. Suddenly Clint could hear a vehicle approaching. Ducking into the nearest ally he watched as a yellow cab came closer towards him. 

Immediately Clint started running through all the cities he knew that had yellow cab companies. Baltimore, Peoria, San Francisco, San Diego, New York. What was the likely hood of his kidnappers driving a yellow cab? Highly unlikely he thought. 

Taking the chance that his kidnappers were not driving around in such a conspicuous vehicle he stepped out into the middle of the road, blocking the way and aiming the gun at the driver, just in case he was wrong. 

The cab screeched to a halt as the driver slammed on the brakes. When it had come to a complete stop Clint could see the driver holding his hands up in the universal sign for surrender. Keeping the gun raised, Clint moved around to the side and opened the back door and got in. 

The driver was looking at Clint through the rear view mirror, a mixture of fear and surprise on his face. "Drive," Clint ordered. 

"Okay, just don't shoot. I've got kids," said the driver as he put the car back in gear. "You alright mate? You want me to take you to a hospital? Or the cops?" 

"No," huffed Clint as he tried to get more comfortable, though anything touching his back was painful. "What city are we in?" 

"Queens mate," answered the driver looking at Clint through the rear-view mirror "You sure you're alright?" 

"'M good," huffed Clint. Though he was sure he looked like he was a horror movie survivor. He had no shoes or shirt, he was covered in blood and his wrists were still chained together. 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah," sighed Clint as he closed his eyes. He was tired. He hurt, though he knew he needed to stay alert and find somewhere to get patched up. Phone SHIELD maybe? Would they even pick up? He'd been gone for three months, nobody had come for him. Maybe they'd given up? Who else could he call? Nat? Would Nat pick up? 

"Control this is 4N72-" 

"Put the radio down!" interrupted Clint, bolting upright and pointing the gun at the driver again. He'd lost time, he chided himself. He couldn't afford to do that. He could not afford to lose focus. 

"Whoa, whoa! Don't shoot, please don't shoot," begged the driver as he dropped the radio and slammed the brakes on. Clint groaned as he slammed into the safety glass. "You passed out, I was just going to alert a hospital." 

"No hospitals," sighed Clint as he lowered the gun and sat back in the seat, realising that the driver wasn't a threat. 

"Alright, alright. Where do you want to go? 'cause I really need to take you somewhere." 

"Lower Manhattan, and you can tell your control that. You'll even get paid," replied Clint. He wanted to go home, and the best way to do that was to head back to SHIELD, find out if they wanted him back. The nearest base to Queens was the New York City field office in Manhattan. 

"Hey, Kid? You need to tell me the street name?" yelled the driver. Clint opened his eyes, not even realising he had closed them. He was fading fast and he knew it. 

"Yeah, erm...I'll tell you where to turn when we get closer." 

"You sure? What if you pass out again?" 

"What's your name?" asked Clint sitting up a bit more. He didn't really care what the guys name was but he needed to stay awake. If that meant listening to what the driver was saying then that's exactly what he would do. 

"Bernie, Bernie Dawson," smiled the driver, relaxing slightly. 

"Hi Bernie," smiled Clint, or at least he tried to, though he was pretty sure it looked more like a grimace. 

"What do I get to call you?" asked Bernie. 

Clint hesitated for a moment. Truth or lie? Would it really matter? Did he really care? 

"Clint." 

"Hi Clint," smiled Bernie looking in the rear view mirror at him. 

"What time is it?" asked Clint. 

"Nearly four thirty in the morning." 

"You always work this late?" 

"My eldest girl is going to collage next year. Every little counts, right?" 

Clint nodded but didn't say anything. Money had never been an issue for him. Growing up in the circus, everything had been provided for him. When he'd worked for Moretti, he didn't have a lot but he got housed and traveled the world which was a consolation prize. Any money he did get he had started saving money in various banks, safe houses and storage lockers.

Now that he was a SHIELD agent, everything was provided for again. He got a good wage, in fact he got a damn decent wage when you compared it to other government agencies. Yet, he barely spent any of it, stayed on base had meals provided for him, other than his bike and his bow he had very few possessions. 

"How many kids you got?" asked Clint suddenly as he felt himself drifting off again. 

"Three," answered Bernie with pride. Two girls, eighteen and fourteen. My son is twelve." 

"That must be nice." 

"What about you? You got a family?" asked Bernie. 

"Nah," laughed Clint, stopping as soon as his ribs protested, forcing him to cough. "Well, not really. Not like you." 

"I've got a cell phone, if you want to call someone?" asked Bernie holding the phone up. 

"No thanks," sighed Clint. He didn't want to chance that nobody would pick up. 

"Alright then," nodded Bernie not pushing the issue. 

The two men lapsed into silence for a while. Clint watching out the window, he'd been to New York multiple times. He liked the city, yet he didn't really feel anything. He should be happy, he knew he should be happy. He'd survived. 106 days. That number kept going around in his head. He'd been so close. So close. Yet nobody had come. Coulson hadn't come. 

"Clint we're coming up on Manhattan, you want to tell me where we're going?" 

"Yeah, sure," answered Clint coming out of his thoughts. For the next five minutes Clint directed Bernie through the streets of Manhattan until he told him to stop. 

"You sure this is the right place?" asked Bernie in concern. They were in the middle of high rises. There was nothing here, or nothing that he thought could help the bleeding man in the back of his cab. 

"Yeah, thanks," said Clint as he looked up at the high rise to the left of them. It hadn't changed, not that he really expected it to have changed. But he felt like something should have changed. 

"Wait here, someone will be out in a minute to give you the money," said Clint getting a hold of himself as he opened the door. "And some extra for the clean-up job." 

"Don't worry about it," smiled Bernie a mixture of relief that this guy was getting out without harming him and worry that this guy was getting out and still dripping blood. "I feel bad letting you out here. You should really see a doctor." 

"I will," sighed Clint. Several he thought, much to his displeasure, but he wasn't daft enough to turn down a trip to medical at this point. Of course he couldn't remember if the New York City field office had a medical unit or not? All SHIELD buildings has some form of medical but that could be anything from a cupboard impersonating a medical facility to a full out trauma unit. Right now Clint just wanted a bed. 

"Take this then," said Bernie, making the decision he handed Clint a business card with his name and cell number on it. "In case whatever here doesn't work out." 

"You're a good man Bernie," smiled Clint as he took the card. This time he knew his smile looked a bit more sincere.

Clint limped up to the building's entrance, his knee throbbing so much that he couldn't hide it anymore. There was no access card or code required to get into the lobby, after all this was just meant to be an ordinary office building with ordinary people. If you wanted to get past security then you needed ID, and pass codes and depending on what floor you wanted, you had to pass the bio-locks.

He really hoped that whoever was on the desk would recognise him or at least get somebody who would recognise him. He didn't fancy an argument tonight. 

Clint was halfway across the lobby when the guard on the far side of the room, spotted that he was holding a gun. The guard immediately started yelling and pointing his own gun at Clint, making the other three guards do the same. 

"Drop the weapon and get down on the ground," yelled the guard who was sat behind the desk, who was now standing. 

Clint glared at the moron. He could see three other guards out of the corner of his eyes. All were pointing guns at him and edging closer. You'd think that maybe the chains between his wrists and the fact that he looked like Bruce Willis at the end of all the Die Hard movies was a big clue that he wasn't here to kill everybody in the building, and might just need some help. 

"I'm Agent Barton, I-" 

"I SAID DROP THE WEAPON!" yelled the guard interrupting Clint. 

Clint's grip on the gun didn't relax, his hand had cramped up around his most likely broken fingers. He could force his hand to un-clench but there was a small part of his brain that didn't want to let go of the gun. He'd acquired this gun, this was a security. He knew he was safe though, he knew he should do as he was told. Keeping a hold of the gun wasn't going to help him now, but he couldn't. He just couldn't let go of the gun. And in that moment he was fighting his base instincts and putting all of his effort into not raising said gun and shooting every single guard who was pointing a weapon at him, even though he only had two bullets, the first shot would go into the head of the moron in front of him who kept shouting at him. 

"I want to speak to Agent Coulson," said Clint slowly. 

"Put the gun down!" yelled a guard from behind him. 

"I can't!" yelled Clint, just as a shot rang out and he felt something hit him in the upper chest, propelling him backwards, tripping over his own feet he fell, until he was flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. 

"Stand down," ordered a female voice. "Stand the fuck down!" 

He knew that voice, he was sure of it. He scrunched his eyes closed as he tried taking in as much air as possible. 

"Barton? Barton look at me," Hill ordered, tapping his cheeks. "Open your eyes." 

"Hi," smiled Clint as he opened his eyes before a wracking cough erupted from him, forcing his eyes closed as he tried to breathe through the pain. 

"Easy Barton, slow your breathing down." Hill pulled off her jacket, rolling Barton towards her slightly before pushing her Jacket underneath him to staunch the blood from the exit wound, before letting him roll back onto his back. The small groans Barton made was the only sound that he was in pain. "Why didn't you drop the gun?" 

"There's a... a cab out...side... you... need to... pay him," gasped Clint. 

"Okay, okay, I'll see to that," reassured Hill, pressing her hands over the entry wound. She took her eyes off of Barton to look up at the guards who were just staring at them. "Damn it, call the fucking medical team. NOW!" 

Barton made a small choking sound beneath her, grabbing her attention again. "Hey, hey, easy Barton. Take it easy and keep those eyes open." 

"Yes Ma'am," coughed Barton before scrunching his eyes closed in pain. 

Hill rolled her eyes at Barton, nobody made a title sound like an insult like Barton did. 

"I survive...three months...in a...fuck...ing... basement," gasped Clint. "And I'm... gonna die... from a ...gunshot... that the moron... couldn't hit... center... mass." 

"No one's dying here today." 

"I...was...three...feet...from...him." 

"Well, when you're back on your feet you can show them how to shoot properly. Deal?" 

Barton had his eyes closed now, shaking him slightly to try and get him to open his eyes, Hill got no response. "WHERE THE FUCK IS THAT MEDIC!"

.

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

 **AN: Hopefully you don't think Hill is too OOC at this point. I would also like to say I know nothing about New York other than what I see on TV, if there is anything you think is so completely wrong that it bugs you, let me know and I'll change it to be more accurate. All thoughts and opinions welcome.**

 **.**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Apologies again for such a delay in updating and thank you to everybody who reviewed, your opinions are very much appreciated. I will be the first to admit that I'm not a fan of 'injury recovery' stories which is why this chapter jumps around a bit. If people want, I will upload deleted scenes from the cutting room floor at a later date. Slight warning for the use of Clint's potty mouth.**

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

Coulson marched down the corridor, flinging the doors open to the medical wing hard enough so that they hit the walls and then bounced back. 

"Agent Coulson, was that really necessary?" tutted Dr Jones from where she stood at the nurses' station. 

"Where is he?" 

"Good morning to you too," huffed the older woman as she closed the file she was reading and handing it to the nurse behind the desk. "Follow me." 

Coulson followed the doctor down the hallway to one of the side rooms. Looking through the window he could see Barton lying in the bed, multiple drips and lines coming off of him and connecting the younger man to several machines. 

"He's malnourished, dehydrated and he needed several blood transfusions," said Dr Jones, getting straight to the point. There was no need to beat around the bush with Coulson. He didn't want small talk. He wanted the facts. She had treated Agent Barton on multiple occasions over the last few years and it was always the same. 

"His current injuries include multiple lacerations to his back, fractures to his ribs and left wrist. He's got an effusion on his left knee, plus a head injury, not to mention the gunshot to his right upper chest and the resulting pneumothorax." 

"You said current injuries." 

"I did," sighed Dr Jones. "I've seen the videos, but even if I hadn't he has more scars now than what we have documented in his file. He's got scars on the palmer aspect of both his wrists, a scar from a gunshot wound to the lower chest and what I can only assume was a serrated blade that at some point sliced through his abdomen. That's the oldest of the new scars." 

"Three months old?" asked Coulson, thinking that could be the injury which was caused in Mexico City, which started all of this. 

"Yes, quite possibly," agreed Dr Jones. "Anyway, he has bruises that are new and old, covering most of his body. The X-rays and scans show that all of his fingers and most of his toes have been broken and re-set at one point or another.

"The ligaments around his right shoulder appear damaged which I'm assuming was from a dislocation or the very least a subluxation. Though they are healing which again is surprising." 

"Why is that surprising?" 

"If he'd been treated in a hospital it wouldn't have been. However, I have seen the videos, I've seen what conditions he was kept in. The fact that someone caused those injuries then went through the proper medical care to repair that damage, to the point that he most likely hasn't loss any function or range of motion. Whoever had hold of him had experience as a trauma surgeon, and a lot of it. Not to mention the orthopaedic knowledge he would have to have." 

"How many people do you think could have that kind of knowledge?" 

"There is always a difference between knowledge and proficiency, so I'd be guessing, but a handful at best," shrugged Dr Jones. 

"Is he awake?" asked Coulson, his mind spinning with more questions. Wondering what was the real purpose that Barton was kept alive for so long. 

"We had to sedate him," sighed Jones. "He became increasingly agitated, nearly gave Jane a black eye when we tried to insert the chest drain. He may have lost a lot of muscle over the last few months, but that training doesn't just go away." 

"But-" 

Jones held up a hand to stop Coulson's protest. "It was either sedate him or restrain him. After everything he's been through, I didn't think that was the best course of action. We'll start reducing the dose as soon as we see signs of healing and we'll remove the chest drain as soon as the pneumothorax has resolved. Until then this is best for him, we've got the perfect opportunity to get some much needed nutrients into him while he's like this, you have to trust me on that." 

Coulson nodded, though it didn't bring him much comfort as he watched Barton lying so still in the bed. After receiving the call from Hill that Barton had just walked through their front door and had been medevaced from New York City straight to the Upstate New York base, Coulson had got straight on a Quinjet from the Triscellion to the base. 

"Go get some sleep," ordered Jones. "And take that young agent with you. She's been sitting on the floor in my waiting area ever since Barton arrived." 

Coulson frowned in confusion as he watched Jones walk away. What agent? He hadn't seen anyone when he'd walked in. Taking one more look at Barton he turned and left the way he came in. Noticing for the first time, Agent Hill sitting on the floor, her back up against the wall. 

"Something wrong with the chairs?" asked Coulson. 

"They're uncomfortable," replied Hill before she looked up to see Coulson. "Sir?" she staggered to her feet. "How's Barton?" 

"Alive, which I believe is down to you." 

"I didn't do anything," shrugged Hill. "He walked in the door all by himself." 

"And that's not his blood on your hands?" pointed out Coulson. 

Hill looked at the dried blood on her hands, Barton's blood. 

"You did good, don't think anything different. Now, I suggest you get yourself cleaned up, get some sleep and we'll debrief in the morning. If Barton walked through your door, then he must have been kept in the city." 

"Queens sir," corrected Hill. 

"Barton told you where he was?" asked Coulson, slightly shocked. 

"No sir," answered Hill. "He got a cab to the office. Phelps tracked down the driver and got shown the area where Barton was picked up. Phelps has a team out there now searching buildings." 

"Queens?" asked Coulson. Hill nodded in confirmation. "Shit, we need a computer." 

"Sir?" asked Hill in confusion, as she watched Coulson stalk off. 

"Queens was one of the leads we had for the medical supplies, but it didn't pan out. It lead to an old guy with a germ phobia. We didn't look into it further," called back Coulson. 

"You think it's connected?" asked Hill following Coulson, quickly realising that they were heading to his office. 

"I think if it's not, then it's a big coincidence and I don't believe in those." 

Coulson chucked a pack of baby wipes at Hill as they entered his office. "Clean your hands before you touch anything." 

Hill smirked but did as she was told. She didn't think anything would get the blood from beneath her fingernails but her palms and fingertips were clean-ish. The rest would have to wait until she could get to a bathroom. 

"This is the file we had on the guy in Queens," said Coulson pointing to the screen. 

"Okay, move over let me see if I can find anything else." Hill started typing away seeing if she could find any connections to Sanson or even a tenuous link to other properties or land in Queens. 

Ignoring how Coulson was leaning over her and watching everything she typed she worked for twenty-six minutes before she thought she came up with something, a warehouse in the name of Jake Patterson, who was the neighbour of Josh Miller who was the germaphobe guy. Of course Josh Miller was eight years old.

Pulling out her cell phone, ignoring how much dried blood was caked upon the device, she dialed a familiar number. 

"Phelps, I've got an address for you," she said standing up and starting out of the office. 

"Hill, where are you going?" interrupted Coulson. 

"I'm going to meet Phelps and help with the search," answered Hill like it was obvious. 

"The address?" 

"You don't need it. You need to stay with Barton. I'll call you when we find something." 

Coulson watched dumbstruck as the younger agent left without another word. Slumping down into his desk chair that Hill had just vacated he pinched the bridge of his nose. That was the second time Hill had given him an order and that was the second time he'd done nothing but obey it. She was going to become one of the most formidable agent's in SHIELD, he was sure of it.

.

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

Clint kept his eyes closed as he woke up. There was somebody near him, but it wasn't Sanson. He knew the way that man moved. Whoever was in the room with him was smaller, lighter, but they were far noisier. They dragged their feet as they walked, each shuffle was followed by the soft swish of material. Possibly long trousers, brushing the floor with each step. 

Clint listed to other sounds in the room. There was a soft beeping to the left of him. It was rhythmic and constant. A heart monitor. He was connected to a heart monitor. Now that he thought about it he could feel the wires against his skin, there was three attached to his chest, which was the standard required for a heart monitor. There was a pulse Ox meter attached to his right middle finger along with an IV in the crook of his right elbow. He focused on that. The more he focused on the line the more he could feel the warm fluids flowing into him. _Damn it!_ He hated it when Sanson drugged him. It messed with his head. Clearly that was why it felt like he was lying on a bed. A proper bed, with a mattress and sheets and a blanket. Not the usual metal framework cot that could be felt underneath the thin fabric of 'bed'. 

What game was Sanson playing this time? 

All thoughts of playing possum left his head when somebody touched his chest. He reacted on instinct, grabbing the person's wrist with his left hand he snapped his eyes open and threw the covers off his body. Before the person, a woman could make a sound he was jumping out of the bed on the left side and standing behind the woman. He growled in response to the sudden pains of the wires, cannula and a catheter ripping out of him. 

Keeping a hold of the woman, a nurse he realised as he looked down at the scrubs she was wearing. He held her in front of his naked body, her back against his chest one hand pulling her left arm tight behind her back, while his left hand pulled her right hand across her chest and neck, effectively keeping her in place. 

"Agent Barton, my name is Kelly," said the woman softly a slight hitch to her voice. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart as she began to panic. 

"Quiet," growled Clint as he started looking around the room. The walls were a plain off white colour, the door was a sliding door made up of all glass, like you find in houses that lead out on to decking. It took up the whole of the wall opposite him. Beyond the glass he could see other people running towards the room he was in. Two men and a woman in the same blue scrubs that the nurse he was still holding was wearing. He gripped the woman in front of him closer as he backed further into the room. He needed an exit, looking around he spotted another door on the other side of the bed, this one was made of wood, maybe he could get out that way? 

His attention was brought back to the three people entering the room, they were all talking at once, shouting at him. He scrunched his eyes closed as he tried to focus on one thing, just one thing. Damn these drugs, they were stopping him from thinking straight. He needed to think straight. 

"Barton?" 

Clint snapped his head up at the familiar voice, looking at the growing number of people in front of him. There were people now pointing guns at him. 

"Clint, let the nurse go," coaxed Coulson from the doorway as he stepped in front of the other people. "You're scaring her." 

Clint looked down at the woman he was still holding, tears running silently down her cheeks. He looked back up at Coulson, who was now closer than before. 

If Coulson was here then this couldn't be Sanson's doing. Right? Or these drugs were really fucking with his head. Clint screwed his eyes up burying his head into the nurse's shoulder as the memories began to hit him hard and fast.

One hundred and six days worth of torture and pain, followed by the final fight with the man he hated more than any other. He walked out of that room on his own, no one came for him. No one.

He got a fucking cab of all things back to SHIELD. He made it home. Then the bastards shot him. 

"Clint, let the nurse go," urged Coulson as he saw the woman's eyes go wide as Barton unconsciously tightened his grip around the woman's wrist, pulling it closer to her opposite shoulder, creating her own choke hold. 

Coulson could see the adrenaline rush leaving Barton's body, the younger man was beginning to shake. His grip on the nurse tightening as he attempted to control the slight sway of his own body. This was the first time Barton been awake and more or less coherent since coming back. This past week, Coulson had sat and watched the unconscious agent and the first time he leaves the young man has a woman by the throat. "Clint, let go of the nurse." 

Without warning, Barton snapped his head up to look at Coulson, for one moment Coulson saw the clarity in Barton's eyes. He released his grip letting the nurse go who immediately strode forward and straight out of the room without a backwards glance. 

Barton though was backing further away from Coulson, until his back hit the wall, his eyes now darting around the room looking for that all important exit. 

"Clint? Clint look at me," said Coulson as he took a step forward, his hands up in full view. 

Clint looked up and stared at Coulson. He'd made it home. His breath hitched as he looked around the room. He'd made it home. The same thought kept swimming around and around his head. He'd made it home. 

"Clint take a deep breath," Coulson urged as he started to watch the younger man panic. His breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. Clint looked back at him with wide eyes, the sheer look of panic clearly showing through now. The clarity had left, the confusion was back. 

"Clint, you're safe now. You're back," Coulson said as Clint slumped against the wall, his feet going from underneath him so he was now sitting on the floor. Mindful of the blood that was now dripping down Clint's arm from where the IV had been ripped out, Coulson crouched down in front of his injured agent. 

"Look at me Clint," ordered Coulson. He knew not to touch Clint while he was in this state, he'd made that mistake before. There was no telling how he would react. When they had locked eyes, Coulson gave a small smile. "You're safe. You hear me, safe." 

Clint was nodding his head, god, did he so want to believe that. He'd been trapped for so long, but he didn't want to believe that this was all real only for it to be ripped away again.

He felt rather than saw movement behind Coulson, tensing up he tried to stand but all his energy had suddenly vanished. Slumping further onto the ground, his vision wavered, the world tilting around him, making him feel sick. 

"Relax, Clint. I'm not going anywhere. You're safe," reassured Coulson. "You're safe," he repeated and kept repeating until Clint passed out less than a minute later. 

"Out of the way Coulson," ordered Dr Jones as she pushed through the growing number of medical staff and security team that had been called. "God damn it, put those guns away and get out of my sight!" she yelled at the gaping agents.

"Coulson, you've done your job, let me now do mine." Spoke Dr Jones as she crouched next to the injured man. Thankful that his chest drain had been removed yesterday. 

Coulson nodded before getting up off the floor, retreating to the corner he watched as the medical team maneuvered Barton from the floor and back up on to the bed. They moved seamlessly around each other as they re-assessed Barton's injuries. He wasn't going anywhere from this point.

.

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

Coulson watched as Barton paced around the room like a caged tiger. His eyes darting from the door to the window and back again. When Barton started on his next rotation of the room, Coulson stood up from his seat and blocked the younger man's path. 

Barton halted his walk, looking up startled by Coulson's presence, almost like he'd forgotten that Coulson was even there. 

"Take a seat, Barton," ordered Coulson. 

Barton opened his mouth to respond, only to shut it again before letting out a low growl in frustration. He turned back to the window and leaned his forehead against the glass. 

"What's wrong?" 

"Nothing," growled Barton. 

"Then why are you pacing like a caged animal?" 

Barton turned around with such ferocity that Coulson had to stop himself from taking a step back. The fire in his eyes was startling. 

"I am a caged animal," snarled Clint. "I'm stuck in this room just like I was stuck in that fucking basement!

"Those fucking doctors won't let me leave. I've got agents outside the door at all times, watching me! And then there's you! You sit there and watch me! There is Nothing. Wrong. With. Me!" 

"Barton, calm down a moment before you pull your stitches," placated Coulson, becoming frustrated with the man. 

"I don't care about some god damn stitches. I want to leave!" Yelled Barton. 

"Three weeks ago, you were practically dead!" snapped Coulson. "You're still significantly underweight because you keep refusing to eat. You barely sleep. You won't talk to any of the doctors and last night you smashed the mirror in the bathroom." 

"I don't want to talk. I don't _need_ to talk. Everybody saw everything. They don't need me to tell them what happened. They have the fucking video footage to view in all it's fucked up glory." 

"They don't need you to talk about what happened, you need to tell them-" 

"I DON'T WANT TO TALK!" screamed Clint. "I want to be left alone. I want people to stop watching my every god damned move. I want them to stop looking at me and to stop muttering to each other. I just want to leave." 

"And go where?" asked Coulson surprised. "You've just come back." 

"And who's fucking fault was that? You said I'd never be alone again. You said you'd always be there. I saved myself. I killed Sanson. Me! On my own!" 

"I know, and I'm sorry about that. I did everything I could to find you," said Coulson. "I-" 

"Get out," muttered Clint.

"Cli-" 

"GET OUT!" screamed Clint as he picked up the nearest chair and threw it at Coulson. 

Coulson ducked as the chair went over his head, crashing into the glass sliding door and smashing it to pieces. A nurse screamed from the other side in surprise. The two agents who were either side of the door pulled their guns and pointed them into the room.

Standing up slowly, Coulson held his hand up to halt the rush of medical staff that was coming towards the room. 

"Okay Clint, okay," soothed Coulson. "I'll go." Coulson watched as Clint wrapped an arm around his ribs as he tried to get his breathing under control. Backing away slowly, Coulson kept his eyes on Barton while ushering the two agents to step further away. "I am sorry." 

Clint only glared at Coulson in return.

.

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

 **AN: Hopefully you didn't find Clint OOC.**

 **Opinions always welcome.**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Happy New Year to all, and thanks for the great reviews, your opinions and feedback are always appreciated. I'm thinking I should make my new year's resolution _"update more regularly"_. Hopefully this long awaited chapter will not disappoint. Enjoy!**

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

Clint sat on the floor of an empty conference room, his back against one wall. From where he sat, Clint could see the corridor from the open doorway, but anyone passing wouldn't be able to see him. On his other side he could see out of the window. He was also in the only blind spot the camera had of the room. He was once again invisible.

On the wall opposite, Clint had used one of his throwing knives to pin a photograph of Sanson. A still that he'd taken from Coulson's desk.

He flipped another throwing knife in his right hand, before flicking it towards the photograph to land squarely in the middle of Sanson's forehead. Pulling out another knife, he spun it around his fingers before tossing it at the photograph, the point embedding through Sanson's right eye.

"I do believe you're still meant to be in medical," said Coulson from the doorway.

Clint didn't reply as he pulled out another knife. He hadn't seen Coulson since he'd thrown a chair at the older guy. Four days had gone by, he'd had shrinks in the room twice a day and nurses watching him eat. He felt more constrained and trapped then ever, so when an opportunity presented itself he slipped out of medical. He couldn't go to his usual haunts, that would be the first place anyone would look. Yet somehow Coulson had tracked him down in less than two hours.

"Clint, talk to me."

"About what?" shrugged Clint as he tossed the knife at the photo, making it go through Sanson's left eye.

"For starters, you can tell me why you're throwing knives at a picture of a dead man?"

"It's therapeutic," snarled Clint as he pulled out another knife from the inside of his right boot, forgoing the theatrics this time he threw it straight at the photograph.

Five knives, Coulson counted. Barton had always gone armed around the base, but he had never seen the younger man with this many weapons on him outside of an active mission. It made him wonder how many more weapons Barton had on him.

Coulson walked further into the room, leaning against the wall he slid down until he was sitting next to Clint. They both stayed silent for a long while, Barton holding another knife in his hand. Coulson watched as he twirled it around his right fingers. His left wrist was out of the full cast now and in a blue orthopedic splint, still limiting his range of movement. On closer inspection Coulson could see which knife Clint was holding, it was the old one that had the untidy scrawl with the word SURVIVE etched on the handle.

"You never told me the story behind that knife."

Clint stopped the movement of the knife so he could see the word, tracing it with his thumb. "I've had it since I was nine," answered Clint after a while. "A friend told me to never drop it and always keep it with me. She told me I was a survivor."

"She was right, you are a survivor," confirmed Coulson, wondering if this mystery friend was the same woman who he'd briefly met in Mexico City. "You've been through a lot in your life, and you always come out the other side. You're not a quitter Clint. You proved that when you killed Sanson." Coulson pointed at the photograph on the wall. "You won."

"It's not over," whispered Clint as he started spinning the knife again.

"The other man you told us about?" asked Coulson. Clint hadn't said anything about his time as a captive since he'd been back. No matter who asked, he either stayed silent or snapped angry comments.

Clint nodded in agreement but didn't say anything. If Clint was going to talk then he'd do it at his own pace. No amount of pushing was going to help, no matter how much Coulson wanted to get the younger agent talking.

"It wasn't Sanson who got me in Mexico," shrugged Clint. "That guy was bigger, had a bald head, but not like he'd lost all his hair, just the top bit. The sides were shaved. He didn't talk, even when he got a phone call, he just pressed the buttons periodically, he didn't even grunt. It was like being in the room with a freaking Bond villain."

"Can't be that many mute mercenaries out there, think you could sit with a sketch artist?" asked Coulson.

Clint nodded. "There was a girl. Sanson talked to her via a webcam, called her Matilda. She's the one who hacked SHIELD."

"You said girl, did you mean-"

"She looked no older than fifteen," interrupted Clint. "Sounded like she was from England, the north if I had to guess."

"A teenage hacker from England who's on the international scene, can't be too long of a list to search through," smiled Coulson.

"That's great, one more needle to add to the stack of needles," huffed Phelps as he barged into the room carrying two large file boxes. Dumping them on the conference table he looked down at Barton and Coulson. "Why are you sitting on the floor?"

"What's in the boxes?" asked Coulson.

"This would be the most important case SHIELD has right now. Your case," pointed Phelps to Barton.

Clint huffed, "I was gone for three months and you have two boxes to show for it. Explains a lot." Coulson noted the anger in the younger agents voice was back, any progress he might have made a minute ago was gone.

"What? No, this is just the index cards. The rest is on its way up from the garage as we speak. Hill is down their coordinating a bunch of rookies. They should be here right about now."

Phelps looked to the empty doorway in anticipation. When no one came through, he shrugged. "Well, they'll be here." He took the lid off the first box, pulling out the top clipboard.

Barton looked to Coulson and then to the empty doorway as they heard footsteps getting closer. A lot of footsteps. Coulson didn't comment when he noticed Barton tense beside him, nor did he comment when the knife in his hand stopped spinning, the grip switching to one that would be perfect for throwing. Instead, Coulson stood up and took one step forward, not obscuring Barton's view of the door but making him less visible to anyone walking in the door.

Agents started walking through the door with file boxes in their arms, Phelps directed them to where to place them on the table, organising the boxes into different groups. The agents left as quickly as they had arrived with Agent Hill coming in last and closing the door behind her.

"Barton, put that little pig-stick away and get off your ass," said Hill as she dropped the clipboard she was carrying onto the table.

"Hill," warned Coulson. He did not want to see a repeat performance of Barton's explosive temper, especially when he had a knife in his hand.

"No, he has been moping around for the past month, feeling sorry for himself," scoffed Hill. "So, he can start being useful again and use that big ol' brain of his and tell us what we missed. Then I'll fucking fly the jet myself so he can shoot the bastard that started this."

Barton chuckled from where he still sat on the floor, "You're a bitch, Hill."

"With a capital B," smirked Hill. Barton slowly stood up, no one commenting on how long it took him to get to his feet, or how unsteady he looked, and no one offered him a hand as he limped towards the table, sliding the knife into its sheath at the back of his waistband as he went.

"So, you can fly now?"

Hill shrugged, "Well no, but it just wouldn't have sounded that great if I'd said _I'll coordinate with you through a comm. while you go wherever you please while I'm watching the whole thing through a video screen."_

"Yeah, when you put it like that," shrugged Barton, his mood souring again.

"Which box first?" asked Coulson. He'd been surprised when Barton had laughed earlier, thinking that Hill's crazy idea might actually work in getting Barton back to his old self. It would give himself something to focus on again.

"Let's go with the photos. Everyone we interviewed, suspected or even guessed, may have a connection to whatever _this_ is."

"Boxes six through to ten," chirped Phelps while pointing to the stack of boxes at the far end of the conference table.

.

- **SHIELD—**

 **.**

"Okay, so this plan might have slightly backfired," whined Hill as she put her head in her hands.

"What was your first clue? The fact that he's still barely eating or the fact that he hasn't left that room in the past nine hours?" asked Coulson.

"He leaves occasionally, I mean it's not like he has a bucket in the room, and I do believe that they are crackers on the table," pointed out Phelps.

"They're un-opened," answered Coulson, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"It's been over a week. I'm pretty sure he's not sleeping either. Not to mention, he's completely mixed up the evidence. Do you realise how long it will take me to catalog all of that once he decides he's finished?" asked Hill.

"I guess that depends on how quick you can find a ladder?" shrugged Phelps.

"What?" asked Hill in confusion looking at Phelps.

"He's pinned stuff to the ceiling. I mean, how did he do that? The guy is what five foot ten, with his busted knee he's practically hop-"

"Phelps," interrupted Coulson. "He's the world's greatest marksman how do you think they got up there?"

"So what are we going to do?" asked Hill getting up from her chair and starting to pace. Her and Barton had an odd relationship, there was nothing remotely sexual about it. He'd never once hit on her, unlike some of her other male colleagues, in fact most times he made her feel like she had another brother.

"Nothing. Either he'll find the answer he's looking for or-"

"Or what? He collapses and ends right back in medical again, where he breaks more mirrors, gets thinner by the day and turns into a non-functioning mute!"

"Well, that's a bit dramatic," chuckled Phelps. "I mean, he barely says anything now."

 **.**

 **-SHIELD—**

 **.**

Clint looked down at his phone, the same unknown number had been calling him for the past half hour. It was a new phone, nobody had this number. Well, no one but Coulson, and Hill and probably Phelps. Coulson had handed him the new phone as the older guy had told him to go back to his bunk and try sleeping. He wasn't tired though, no he was tired. He was tired down to his bones, he just didn't like closing his eyes. He didn't like to see that fucking basement every time that he did. Better to keep his mind occupied and _his_ case was exactly that. Coulson disagreed, threatening to sedate him if he didn't try to get some rest. So he'd come to the roof, he could see for miles from up here and no one would bother him. He was alone.

The phone started to ring again "What!"

 _"Finally, I thought you'd died. What are you doing on the roof with no coat?"_

"What?" asked Clint in confusion looking around. "Nat, what the fuck are you doing here?"

 _"Well, I'm not actually there. I'm about a mile away. If you're planning of dying from hypothermia, I can make it a lot quicker. You look pretty in my crosshairs."_

Clint spun around so he was looking to the nearest perimeter fence of the base and the trees that stood beyond it. "Why are you here?"

 _"I came looking for you."_

"Ahhh Nat, you do care," smirked Clint as he scanned the tree line for the hidden Russian.

 _"Oh no, didn't I mention. There's a contract out on you. It's a big one too."_

"Nat?" Clint was worried now. The Russian had threatened to shoot him before, more than once in fact. She had never considered fulfilling an actual contract on him though.

 _"Now the question is, do I take the shot?"_

"So this is it, fifteen years of-"

 _"friendship? Do you think we're friends Barton?"_ mocked Natasha.

"I think we're a lot of things, we've _been_ a lot of things. And if you define the term friendship as a state of mutual trust and support between allied nations then sure, I guess we're friends," shrugged Clint, his eyes still checking the tree line, knowing that even if he did spot her, there wouldn't be anything he could do.

 _"Huh, I guess we are,"_ concurred Natasha.

"So, do I get the name of who wants me dead?"

 _"Skyggen."_

"Shadow, how original," smirked Clint. The idea that Nat was going to shoot him, didn't scare him. He figured if he was on his way out this was a better option than last month's option. Or one that could present itself next month. "You still there?" he asked when she hadn't said anything in a while.

 _"He worked with Sanson."_

Clint stared out at the forest, his breath catching. "H-how do you know that name?"

 _"I know who they both work for. This isn't one man. This is a network."_

"Nat, who are they?" gasped Clint. "Why me?"

 _"You're the best. They wanted to break you, to convert you. They wanted you to be part of them."_

Clint's eyes were suddenly drawn to movement in the trees to the left of the base. He couldn't see Natasha specifically but he knew she was there. "Do they have you?"

 _"Nobody owns me. I've been down that path before, no one is stupid enough to try that again,"_ she answered in defiance.

"Who are they?"

 _"I have to take the shot, Clint. They're watching us."_

"Who are they?" he urged. Four months of his life had been controlled by these bastards. He wanted a name.

 _"Sicarri. They are the first."_

"The first? The first what?"

 _"The first assassins. The first radical group. They are responsible for every disaster, assassination and plague that has ever happened in the history of the human race."_

"That's impossible."

 _"They aren't Hydra. They don't want to re-make the world in their image. They see themselves as the world's control settings. Keeping the human race on track."_

"How do you know this? How has no one ever heard of them? And why do they want me dead?" He had too many questions, his brain was spinning with the new information.

 _"You survived Clint. You were meant to convert or die."_

"So why you?"

 _"I volunteered."_

"Why?" He was stunned. Fifteen years he'd know Nat and it had come down to this.

 _"Because I won't miss,"_ she answered as she pulled the trigger.

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

 **AN: I would like to point out that I am not overly religious (other than putting Christian on official documents) and I mean no offence to anybody. My personal view is that people should be free to believe in whatever they choose. In fact, it must be nice to believe in something 'bigger' and to have hope that there really is something else after death. I just have to many questions and not enough answers, I guess that's why they call it faith.**

 **I was watching the news on Easter Sunday when a documentary came on about the crucifixion of Jesus. I stopped paying attention and went to do my washing. Then they started talking about the possible reasons Judas betrayed Jesus. One was that Jesus told Judas to betray him, the other was that Judas was a member of the Sicarrii. (I'm sure there were other reasons they explored, that was the bit I didn't pay attention too, I like the two that sounded like conspiracy theories) The Sicarri were a splinter group of the Jewish Zealots who preceded Jerusalem's destruction in 70CE, heavily opposed the Roman occupation of Judea and attempted to expel them and their sympathizers from the area. Sicarii meaning 'dagger-wielder' they would go into crowds and stab the people before blending back into the chaos.**

 **I couldn't find much more information on them, so I've actually no idea if I'm offending people by taking creative liberties. Feel free to let me know your opinions.**

 **PS. In my little world, Clint has always known Natasha as Natasha. My one shot "Before They Were Agents: Iowa" explains all, though not reading that will not take anything away from this story.**


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: Thanks for the great reviews, I really do appreciate them. I'm hoping that people won't be too disappointed with this chapter. Let me hear your opinions. Enjoy!**

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

Clint opened his eyes with a groan, "fuck!"

He was lying on his back, staring at the sky. It had been dark when Nat had shot him, now the sky was lightening showing that the sun was began to rise. Moving his left hand up towards his side until he felt the blood, groaning in pain as he pressed down on the wound.

"'m not dead," muttered Clint to himself. "Why the fuck am I not dead?" Natasha was a much better shot than that. There were no clouds, the moon was out bright, perfect light. There was no wind to speak of and that tree line was less than a mile and higher elevation than the base. She had perfect conditions, he should be dead.

"She didn't want me dead," he sighed in relief, though what perplexed him now was figuring out what game she was playing and more importantly how long he had to figure it out.

Clint struggled to his feet frowning at the brace still wrapped around his knee, he tore it off, the damn thing was getting on his nerves. Groaning as the wound pulled at his side, he placed his hand against the wound, ignoring the amount of blood, running through his fingers. Starting towards the roof exit, he had to blink a couple of times to clear his graying vision.

He'd made it down the stairs and was on the floor that led to medical when he heard Hill calling him. He ignored her and carried on walking.

"Barton, where the hell have you been? Coulson... shit, you're bleeding. What happened?" asked Hill running in front of him and blocking his path.

"Don't!" He growled as she tried reaching out to him.

"Damn it Barton, what happened?"

"I got shot! What does it look like?" he said pushing past her.

"I can see that! Who shot you?"

Clint ignored the woman, as he carried on to the medical wing. Not that he wanted to be prodded by any more doctors but he needed to stop the bleeding so he could go after Nat and hunt down this Sicarri.

"Barton? Barton! Damn it, I'm calling Coulson."

Clint smirked as he pushed the doors to let himself into the medical wing, moving straight to one of the examination cubicles, he pulled the curtain closed behind him before he began opening drawers. He knew how to patch up a bullet wound, he'd done it plenty of times before.

He needed scissors. He needed to cut through his t-shirt so he could see what damage Nat had done. Finding a pair of tuff-cuts he sliced through the thin material to reveal the wound. She'd grazed him. The bullet had skimmed across the side of his ribs; the wound itself was long but not overly deep. Pulling open more drawers, he needed saline to clean it out.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" shouted a female from behind him. Barton turned as he had the edge of the saline bag in his teeth, tearing it open, he quickly poured the cool liquid over the wound, gritting his teeth as he did. "What does it look like," snapped Clint as he dropped the empty bag, turning back to the drawers as he searched for some gauze.

"No! You need to get up on that trolley," said the nurse coming towards him. "You do not go searching through our supplies thinking you know better than-"

"You touch me and I will break your wrist," growled Barton as he pressed the gauze over the wound.

"I'm getting security," said the nurse already retreating.

"Barton, would you sit down and let someone help," urged Hill as she stepped into the cubicle, putting her cell phone back in her pocket. No doubt Coulson was already on his way. He didn't have much time if he wanted out of here.

"Back off!"

"Barton-"

"I said, back off!" snapped Clint as he dropped the bloody gauze and reached for some more.

"Barton-"

"Stop saying my name! I know my fucking name!"

Hill took a step back at the outburst from Barton. It wasn't unusual these days for his temper to snap, and anyone stupid enough to think that he wasn't still dangerous in his _diminished_ state deserved what they got.

"Okay, what do you need?" she asked taking a step back.

"I told you. I need you to back off. I can deal with this myself and then I'm going after N-"

"You know who shot you?" she asked picking up on the clipped sentence.

Barton scowled before turning to look at the wound on his ribs. He couldn't believe he'd nearly said Nat's name. It would be no hard thing for SHIELD to get from Nat to Natalia Romanova, even if he had been more than cautious these past four years when it came to telling stories that included his exploits with Natasha. Dropping the bloody gauze, Barton reached for another and some tape.

"Where's Barton?" shouted the familiar voice of Coulson.

"Over here," called Hill, not taking her eyes off Barton.

"What happened?" asked Coulson walking over.

"Agent Coulson, tell your agent t-"

Coulson held up a hand to stop the nurse who had followed him from talking. "Give us a minute."

"He-"

"One minute." The nurse walked off in a huff. "Barton?"

Clint stayed silent as he started ripping strips of tape off the roll.

"How about I give you a hand with that?" he asked carefully. When Barton didn't answer he turned to Hill. "Find the footage." Hill nodded before walking out of the cubical and towards the nurses station.

"Talk to me Clint."

"I got shot. I don't need help. Yes, I know who shot me and yes, I will be going after them."

"Succinct," huffed Coulson. "You're bleeding from the back of your head."

"What?" Clint moved his hand to the back of his head where he winced before pulling his hand away to find it covered in more blood. "Huh, it's nothing."

"The back of your shirt, says different. It's covered in blood."

Clint scowled, "It's not going to stop me."

"Let me help. Who shot you?"

"Damn it Coulson! It doesn't matter who shot me. What matters is that I know who is behind all of this," snapped Clint turning to face Coulson, the gauze now taped securely over the bullet wound.

"Who? How?"

"They are a network called the Sicarri. They are behind everything from my extended vacation to fucking JFK," Barton shrugged. "Or so I'm told."

"You're bleeding through the bandage," pointed out Coulson. He wasn't convinced on this new information. It sounded too much like a conspiracy theory. Which considering he worked for a secret government agency he could see the irony in that.

Barton walked towards Coulson, ready to convince him that he was fine when he noticed three agents who were gathered around the nurse's desk. Obviously the nurse had called security after all. One of the agents, one he didn't recognise, started walking towards them. Barton watched as he un-holstered his gun, his stride becoming more purposeful. He was raising the gun when Barton realised that he wasn't here just to detain him. He was here to kill him.

Pushing Coulson to one side, he darted forward his right hand reaching out to grip the agents left wrist, pushing it upwards as the shot went off. Tightening his grip, he drove his left fist forward, letting out a yell as the still healing fracture spiked in pain. Twisting the agents left wrist that still held the gun, he turned so his back was up against the agents chest driving his left elbow into the agent's nose.

The agent yelled as he let another shot off into the floor. Sending his elbow back into the agent's face again, Barton quickly followed up by twisting the gun out of the agent's hand. Turning quickly he aimed the now acquired gun at the man who was lying on the floor gripping his bloody nose. Breathing hard, Clint took a step closer to the downed agent.

"Barton, give me the gun," ordered Coulson from next to him. Clint looked up to see Coulson with his own gun out and pointed at the downed agent along with two other agents one pointing his gun at the floor the other pointing the gun at him.

"Fucking hell, first N-" Clint stopped himself, huffing out a long breath, "I'm taking the whole fucking network down. Every last one of the bastards who think they can come after me."

"Barton, I'm with you on that, but first give me the gun," urged Coulson, noticing how the younger agent's body was starting to shake as the adrenaline began to wear off.

"I'm not going to kill him. Dead men don't talk," shrugged Barton as he smirked at the downed agent.

"Then there's no harm in giving me the gun."

"Fine." Barton handed Coulson the gun. The agent who was pointing his gun at him turned it the floor. "Seriously man, you think I'm the dangerous one. He's the one who tried to shoot me. Why is everyone so keen to shoot me?"

"Must be your winning personality," smirked Coulson, enjoying the familiarity of Barton's sarcastic humur coming through. "Agents, take him to holding," instructed Coulson pointing to the downed agent.

"Barton, you're going to let me look at that gunshot wound. No arguments or you don't get to speak to our friend." Barton opened his mouth to protest but didn't get anything out before Coulson spoke over him. "You know, if you'd actually eaten a proper meal in the last week you would have been able to take him down in half the time."

Clint only scowled in response.

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**

"Agent Hudson, six years in SHIELD, FBI before that, Army before that. No red flags, no significant debt. No wife, no kids, your mother lives in a specialist dementia care home in Milwaukee, which is pre-paid for by your late father. No siblings. Nothing in your life is a reason to betray SHIELD. So why'd you do it?"

Coulson looked down at the agent, who's nose had stopped bleeding, the dried blood still covering his chin and chest.

"I'll tell you everything, you just gotta promise me you'll protect Vicki. Promise me," pleaded Hudson.

"Who's Vicki?" asked Coulson, dreading where this was going.

"She's my kid. Daughter of my high school girlfriend, she's twelve and an honor student. They sent me pictures, they're following her. They know her routine where she lives where she goes to school and ballet. They have eyes everywhere."

"Why didn't you say anything to your handler?" sighed Coulson. Once again, SHIELD seemed to have less information than anybody else.

"They have eyes everywhere. Everywhere!" Coulson could see the genuine fear in the man's eyes. "Who told you to kill Barton?"

"What? No, I wasn't trying to kill him," protested Hudson, shaking his head repeatedly.

"Someone just tried to kill him and now they don't want him dead, explain that to me?"

"I don't know. I...I got a call twenty minutes before I went to the medical wing, I was told to wound Agent Barton and to give him a message, or she'd kill Vicki."

"What message?"

"Nothing good ever happens in Tokyo."

The door to the interrogation room busted open, the force of it made it crash into the wall before bouncing back on it's hinges. "Those exact words?" asked Barton. "Say it again," he demanded.

"N...nothing good every happens in Tokyo," stuttered Hudson, his eyes going wide as he tried to edge away from Barton.

"Fuck!" Barton stormed out of the interrogation room just as fast as he'd stormed into the room.

"Barton? Barton!" called Coulson hurrying after the younger agent. He hadn't seen the man move this fast since before this whole mess started. That message meant something to Barton and he wanted to know what it was.

Coulson grabbed Barton's shoulder so he could spin him around, what he didn't expect was the palm that struck him in the sternum, sending him tumbling to the floor, gasping for breath. Barton didn't stop to check on Coulson he turned back around and started running down the corridor, all evidence of his previous limp gone.

"What happened?" asked Hill running up to Coulson.

"Stop...Bar...ton."

Hill didn't ask twice, she started running after Barton. For a guy who hadn't eaten a proper meal or slept for more than twenty minutes at any one time in the last month, he could move fast. The only way she knew which corridors to turn down was by the chaos Barton left in his wake.

Hill caught up with Barton at the motor pool, he had his leg over his own Ducati, his crash helmet in his hands. "Barton, just stop!"

Clint looked up to Hill, "Unless you're going to shoot me, I'm leaving this base."

"Where are you going?" asked Hill.

"Not Tokyo," smirked Barton as he revved the engine and sped out of the garage.

 **.**

 **-SHIELD-**

 **.**


End file.
